There’s No Expiration Date.

Last night, I had a conversation with my ex who felt some kind of way that I still choose to tell his chapter of my story — almost 5 years later. I thought I was doing something admirable by holding myself accountable and not painting a total victim portrait.

He asked if it was “my new identity”. That kind of threw me for a loop, because it never occurred to me that there was an expiration date on its relevance.

He proceeded to “remind me” about the other more “relevant” things I have going on in my life. It was an effort, I think, to dismiss the gravity of his participation in an awful time in my life (that has had dire consequences on my physical health — lingering to this day).

Oh, he also claimed that he was “worried about me”, because I still choose to speak on it. GTFOH.

It reminded me of white folks’ favorite rebuttal when Black folks bring up slavery: That happened a long time ago. Get over it.

His effort to gaslight me, and the significance of my story really got me thinking.

I own my story and my feelings. And I can’t dismiss that the events that transpired nearly five years ago have had a lasting impact on my physical health. I have a chronic illness that is exacerbated by stress. I think it goes without saying that caused me immeasurable stress — any my body let me know.

And that’s relevant.

So, I have to tell my story sometimes. It provides a frame of reference. And I own it.

As a Black woman, for example, slavery isn’t my identity. It happened, it was awful, and its truth needs to be spoken.

The same goes for my story. Apologies if your chapter makes you feel some kind of way.


So I Know It’s Real [ Part I ]

I always say that the only way I know it’s “real” is if you make me a Spotify (or your mode/medium of choice — it could be an old school “burned” mix CD for all I care) playlist. And I mean it.

When I say “it’s real”, it can mean any number of things. But if you purport to feel any kind of way (good, bad, ugly or otherwise) about me, the only way I’ll take it seriously is if there is a playlist attached to it.

Do you miss me? Do you want me? Are you sorry? Do you hate me? Do you love me? Make me a playlist.

That said, this playlist is for you. You’ll know who you are if you listen to it. This playlist is intentional (and carefully curated). I don’t know if you’ll stumble across this. I guess that’s for the universe to decide. Not you, but you. You know who you are.

But y’all should listen to it, too. There are some dope tracks.

He Did Me Dirty.

I directed a friend of mine to my blog (to TWO specific posts), to provide a glimpse into my reality, and what has framed my last few years.

After catching up on some of my messiness, he responded, “Whoa…Homeboy did you dirty.”

And all I could think was…yeah, he sure the fuck did.

And I got to thinking…and thinking. And thinking.

To lighten the heaviness (I suppose), he also mentioned that white girls aren’t his cup of tea.

That was such an appropriate response after he read my messy, spilled guts. I kind of loved it.

For the record, he was interested in the goings on that shifted my physical reality as it relates to health & wellness. I’m really not on any petty shit. But I have to be real and tell it like it is.

I also shared this. He responded aptly, “Ayooo…you let the homie smash?

I have to exercise some accountability, right?

“…But All Beckies are White Women.”

This article popped up in my Facebook news feed this morning. And for obvious reasons (to those of you who follow this blog), it spoke to me. Like, on a visceral level.

The 5 Types of ‘Becky’

Becky: (noun); a white woman who uses her privilege as a weapon, a ladder or an excuse. Ex: “A random Becky hit me up on Twitter to explain why not all white women are racist.” What started as a controversial term for fellatio has blossomed into an all-encompassing term for a specific class of white women.

Especially problematic to me (for personal reasons), is the “Beckeisha.” According to author Michael Harriot, “For this subset of Beckies, culture, history and black Bitch, please.penis are all disposable commodities for them to use and discard at their whim. In their belief system, you can’t be offended when they appropriate a culture or call something ‘ghetto,’ because they don’t have a racist bone in their body.”

I, personally, add the caveat that they often refer to their biracial (products of the fetishization of disposable Black penis alluded to in the article) children as the offensive, problematic and racist term mulatto (trying to be cute), and name them uber Black names (for which they have no cultural reference), that they’ve co-opted in an effort to be hip, quirky and pseudo-down (while also giving them dumb ass nicknames — variations on the Black culturally significant — and appropriated birth names).

Yes, I’m being petty tonight. And mad passive aggressive with the subliminal shots. This struck a nerve.

In any case, please read the article. Harriot gives us some gems.

*Also notable are “Rebas”, whose identifying call is: “not all white women…” (which I’m sure some are muttering now). It’s very telling how the five types of Beckies tend to overlap a bit.

But hey, white privilege.

White women think they can do what the fuck they want, apparently.

Reclaiming My Time: On Why I’m Not Attending My Class Reunion.

So, my 20 year high school class reunion is coming up next year. All the hoopla is starting already vis-à-vis Facebook groups, people I haven’t talked to (or thought about) in 20 years coming out of the woodwork, etc.

I’m pretty proud of where I am 20 years later. And, I think I still look pretty good. That said, I will not be attending. And I am unapologetic about it. In the words of Auntie Maxine Waters, I’m “reclaiming my time.”

So, why am I not attending? It’s really not that complicated.

My (long time ex) boyfriend (of ten years) married a woman in my graduating class (we weren’t friends, but acquaintances).

“Well, that’s not that bad, you’re trippin'”, you might be thinking.

The thing is, they hooked up while he and I were still together — living together, in fact. She knew it, and didn’t give a fuck (I mean, she really didn’t need to give a fuck about me; I don’t expect her to — but y’all know what they say about how a relationship begins — it typically ends the same way; plus it’s mad thirsty and snaky).

Nonetheless, I found out he was cheating, moved out (of his condo), and to make a long story short, they ended up getting married.

In any case, I’ve long since moved on from that situation. I harbor no hard feelings (a tinge of petty anger, yes — but, bitterness, no; there is a difference). Hell, he and I even keep in touch, sporadically (Well, we did — I’m sure that will cease now that I’ve spoken my truth, and asserted my right to control the narrative).

Having said that, why in hell would I voluntarily subject myself to being in the same spaces as the happy couple. Especially around people who know both wifey and I — some of them knowing what went down. Why would I participate in that? There’s no doubt that there are folks who would take pleasure absorbing the negative energy emanating from that elephant in the room. I just want no part of it.

So, there you have it. I am not going to my reunion because I will not subject myself to the side eyes and discomfort of watching a woman I graduated with prance around with my (then attached) ex-boyfriend that she managed to marry.

Plus, fuck high school reunions and all they represent. Meanwhile, I’ll just be sippin’ my tea, and reclaiming MY TIME. In other words, my time and comfort are much too valuable to participate in a charade society deems somehow meaningful. Why open up an old wound that I will be forced to nurse back closed? No. Just no.

** Also, please refrain from tagging me/contacting me on social media about anything related to this charade. And, feel free to continually reference this post, if you remain confused.