"I want to fall in love again"

In the fall of 2001, I said to a friend in conversation that I wanted to fall in love again. Neither of us remember the context of that statement but the pure emotion of the statement stuck with her. It was the theme of my Christmas gift that year. It's now approaching nine years since that conversation and I have yet to fall in love again. I don't know quite how I feel about that. I'm not sad nor do I feel like I've missed out on anything in the last nine years but that feeling is definitely with me right now. So as I seek to love again, I'm reflecting on what love was to me.

Love was...

• being listened to.
  
• being loved.
  
• being seen for my best, even in my worst moments.
• problem solving.
  
• encouragement.
• safety and security.
• being a priority.
• feeling beautiful.
• being cared for.
• great kisses.
• hugs that made everything better.
• understanding my struggles.
• wiping away my tears.
• butterflies.
• smiling at the mentioning of a name.
• silly nicknames.
• feeling invincible.
• wanting to share my darkest secret.
• wanting to trust.
  
• hoping for forever.
• the desire to reciprocate.
  

I have to say, at 28, love doesn't look much different than it did at 19. The difference is that I know I can get all of these things (except the great kisses) from my friends and, most importantly, from myself. The last nine years have been full of new beginnings, lessons, and growth. I've been building a foundation that will support me so that the next time I do fall in love, it will feel more like a treat than...

oxygen.

We Collect Inspiration: Tamara Natalie Madden

via Black Girls Rock:

Black Girls Rock: What has been your greatest challenge in your career?

Tamara: The sacrifice. Being an artist requires a lot of sacrifice. It requires patience, and faith. It can be a challenging journey with lots of bumps along the way. Unfortunately, in the art world, I’m not just considered an artist; I am ‘black’, then ‘woman’, then ‘artist.’ All of those titles present there own unique set of obstacles. In addition, to trying to meander my way through the visual art world, while being taken seriously, and not loosing my integrity; I have to be an educator. It’s essential that the new generation of black children learn about the arts, and the value of the arts. They need to understand that art is an investment, which will benefit them for many generations. They also need to know that art is the keeper of history in many cases; it’s an essential doorway to their ancestors.

Read the rest....

The REAL Crisis in the Black (Female) Community

So.  Me and IC were choppin it up last night and we ended up talking about boys.  To be precise, we ended up talking about women who talk about boys, or partners, or marriage or relationships or all of the above.  And I remarked on how I end up in one of these conversations with every black woman in my life: the Little Sistren (both Little and Littlest), the linesisters and the prophytes, Flava, bad black girls, the academic Fam, random twitterers.  Which can be fun but lately has gotten frustrating.  Aren't we all successful, enterprising, creative and beautiful women who are doing a PLETHORA of other things outside of the (romantic) men in our lives?  Aren't we engaged in politics and art and education?  Hell, aren't some of us readies and foodies and music or entertainment heads?  So why does it seem like we end up in these conversations over and over--or complaining about these conversations (yes, I am a case in point).

Is it the crisis of the Disney Princess Generation entering its 30s?  At which point IC broke it down for me.  To paraphrase:

It is like we feel like something missing or we are unsatisfied or unfulfilled.  And instead of of focusing on correcting that or resolving ourselves, we decide that what is missing is a relationship.  So we fixate on that and decide that is what is missing and that is going to fill what is unfulfilled.

I know we keep saying stuff like this, but it is still true and still a good reminder.  This is probably why Tayari Jones post on "Penvy" resonated so much with me.  Read it but the best line is: 

"When I say get to work, I'm saying get back to you."

I'm not having a 30s crisis yet--I think.  But I am starting to get that antzy feeling--that "get to work" feeling--where I'm ready to get it poppin.  Shake things up.  Start a new project.  Six months ago, I identified that feeling with Mr. but recent events put me in a position to think twice about that.   I don't think it was him.  I think it is this transition into a new phase of life and figuring out what the new adventure is going to be.  Is it back to D.C. to do youth activism and rape crisis work?  Is it to Chicago to education work?  Is it France to work with recent immigrants?  Senegal?  Ghana?  Puerto Rico?  I'm itchy to get to work on the next step.  That is probably not the complete answer to why I don't feel completely fulfilled but at least I know that is part of it and I can start to work on the rest.  

Which is hard enough since the accepted discourse on black women's lives doesn't even give us space to even imagine it that way.  And that is a tragedy.  Imagine how many Alice, Zora, Lorraine, Lucille's we have out there who hit 30 (or more like 20, once upon a time) and convinced themselves that it wasn't a new professional, creative or economic adventure that they needed to embark upon--they just didn't have a man.  But we every update on TheRoot.com, the 5 o'clock news and our Facebook/Twitter feeds telling us what we need is a good husband. 

that is all.

The Little Town in Maine Post

(x-posted over at Puff's blog, Generalize This)



A year ago, I moved to a Little Town in Maine. Like Puff, I'm dissertating which is really just a shorthand way of saying I go wherever someone will pay me to teach/research/write until I get my advisor's stamp of approval and I'm allowed to go find a "real" job (then I'll still have to go wherever someone will pay me to teach/research/write but I'll get better benefits and a bright-eyed research assistant I can unload five plus years of pent up exploitation on. What joy is mine).

My travels led me up to the northeast edge of the country, 3 parts New England and 1 part Canada, where the population of people of color is 2% at best and composed of Rwandan, Somali and Sudanese immigrants, military folk, college students (students not faculty, and with an emphasis on athletes) and a few ancien African-Americans descended from eighteenth-century black New England families or some combination of the above. To put that in better perspective, I know all five adult black women in town and all of us are affiliated with the university.

It starts getting dark at 3 p.m. here in the winter. The town (don't blink, you'll miss it) closes shop at 5 p.m. (the really rowdy ones close at 8). Driving slow is the norm and honking is rude (for a native Chicagoan, this damn near kills me). Walking is big, running is bigger, kayaking in the summer (and snowshowing in the winter) is biggest. Everyone has partners (this a meta term that pretty much signifies long-term sexual relations whether married or otherwise) and kids. And playdates. The public radio station plays classical music 80% of the day and there is no Tell Me More or hip hop & R&B station (utter fail as far as I'm concerned and really? All day? who wants to hear classical ALL day?). Waking up at the butt crack of dawn is not only commendable but expected and if you admit you don't expect to receive the New England Look of Disdain.

I think I kind of love it.

Which is weird. Because I'm pretty much the opposite of everything above. I mean--I'm urban. The hell am I doing on the other side of the world in a little town where I can't even find good leave-in conditioner?

But there is something refreshing and familiar--in a Northside Chicago sense--about the blue collar, laid back townspeople. I won't describe them here because I'd have to think and choose my words and this was supposed to be a quick morning post. I'll just say that I got here and I knew them. They were my Polish-Italian immigrant descended neighbors in Chicago's Lincoln Square, they are my mother's overworked and underpaid co-workers, hell, some of them are my mother with her stubborn and loving belief in equal opportunity. And I appreciate that they don't come laden with the same oppressive baggage that I found in, say, St. Louis or Atlanta or D.C. Oh, they have their own issues, and put some of these folks in those cities for a few years and I'll bet white privilege will have its way with them. But their issues aren't the same. Time, place and historical context has given them a willingness to engage you.

And a willingness to leave you alone to do your own thing since their sense of self doesn't revolve around oppressing you.

So to everyone who ever looked on my move to a small town in the Arctic circle with disbelief--yo, it's cool. Give it a try. Life is grand.