My Freshman Year of College, I Met Sister Helen Prejean, who Wrote “Dead Man Walking.”

My college was performing a stage version of the book, and I accidentally enrolled in the class thinking it was a class to fulfill my DCM credit. I was responsible for dramaturgy.

Before that, I don’t think I had too much of a stance on the death penalty. I remember being extremely upset when Stanley “Tookie” Williams was executed because I believed the good work he had been doing to cease gang violence and promote peace was worth his life being spared. I knew it was wrong in some sense, but as an 18-year-old freshman, I didn’t have a clue.

However, after reading the book, and the play, seeing the play performed night after night, and having lunch with Sister Helen, I knew what I believed. Murder is murder no matter if a person is committing it or an institution is sanctioning it. The judicial system is not as much about facts as it is spinning the best story about said facts. So when a life is hung in the balance based on who can tell a story better, how is that justice?

If I killed Soulja Boy for killing my mother, I would still be arrested, tried, convicted, and imprisoned, but if the state kills an inmate, a human being, for allegedly killing another, that’s justice?

The death penalty is not justice. It’s revenge; it’s retribution. It’s flawed eye-for-an-eye logic. It purports that everything in the justice system goes correctly. It assumes that humans have the power to decide who lives and who dies. It feigns as if everything in this world is just or that issues like class and race don’t affect the justice system, because honestly, how many white men have been condemned to die by the state for the murder of anyone black? Go ahead, I’ll wait.

That three-week class changed my life, made me more appreciative of the gift of life, made me realize how incapable humans are of determining right from wrong, justice from injustice, logic from instinct.

Humaneness from beastliness.

The death penalty is cruel and unusual punishment. It’s wrong. It’s racialized; it’s classized; it’s deplorable; it’s inhumane.

In the name of Troy Davis, make it stop.

Now.

You Must Know About What Happened to Me Yesterday

Yesterday, I went to the library. I had to return a few books and I wanted a place to concentrate and finish my rec letters for this week. I got my iPod on, listening to my jams, and I walk into the library. I turn my iPod off and go to quiet my phone when this guy approaches me. He's white, a bit taller than me, has a beard, and, honestly, a zany look in his eyes, eyes that looked like he was on a deserted island for 12 years eating buzzards and I strolled along as a steak and potatoes dinner.

He turns to me, and says, "Have you heard of Herman Cain?"

I instantly become uncomfortable. I know where this is going. I mistook the look in his eyes. It wasn't the look of a man ahungered who finally came across a meal.

It was the look of a fervent ass Republican, a frothy-in-the-mouth-like-rabies Republican.

I say, "Yes."

"Isn't he great!?" he exclaims, a distinct gleam in his eye.

I don't say anything, but I kind of squirm a bit. I wouldn't have been able to say anything anyway because he kept going.

"I'm so excited about him!" he continues. "I really want to get the word out about him. What I especially like about him is that he will bring in the Southern Baptists, you know, because he's a minister."

Do you understand how hard I had to try to not roll my eyes, call bullshit, or break it all the way down like an improper fraction for this dude? Do you know the incomprehensible level of self-control I had to exude here?

Not to mention, I only feel like he approached me because I'm black, but that's neither here nor there.

"I also like him because he's a Christian. We need that in government."

Self-control, yo.

"So yeah, I want to spread the word about Herman Cain. I want everyone to vote for him." He looks at me expectantly, as if he knows I'm going to agree with him and that he was just simply waiting for my confirmation of what he already knew.

Eventually I was going to have to burst his bubble, but I didn't want to be an asshole. Instead, I keep it classy and respectful (I mean, "MOTHERFUCK Herman Cain!!!!" just wouldn't go over too well, you know?) :"Yeah, but he's not my ideal candidate though."

"Oh," he replies, a distinct disappointment in his voice. He turns away from me without another word and immediately goes to the second floor.

I laugh inwardly, heartily. I then proceed towards the back of the library to locate Freakonomics.

A Teacher Watches "Glee"

If you know me, you know that I hate musicals. I can't stand them; I don't like the collective singing and dancing in random situations schtick. I can count on my hands how many musicals I like, it's that serious. I even hate when in stage plays (like Tyler Perry) people just start singing all of a sudden. I find it ridiculous.

All of this is part of the reason why I hated Glee. People singing and dancing for no reason at random moments? You could keep that. I had also heard a few songs which sounded like a tad bit older version of Kidz Bop and that put me off further. I wasn't interested in no damn Glee.

However, a couple weeks ago, I came to the conclusion that I don't know too much about the show and why so many people, young and less young, have cleaved to it and love it so much. After all, I can't hate something I don't know too much about. Therefore, I decided to find out why it was so popular, and I must say that, other than reasons that will be discussed later, I actually like Glee.

However, with all the things the show does well, there are many issues I have with the show, and there are certain lenses that I have that I can't shake as I watch television shows, including Glee. And as soon as I started watching the show, I KNEW I wanted to write this particular blog post because I think it's a critique that needs to be shared. I plan on doing other posts through other lenses that I wear, but here I will solely focus on what it's like as someone who was trained as a teacher watching Glee.

That introduction being said, let me begin.

-------------------------------

William McKinley High School is the most corrupt, ridiculous, scandalous school I have seen in a long time. 

As I watch Glee, I marvel at how inept everyone, and I mean everyone, in power is.

I am a teacher. I decided I wanted to teach English to sixth through twelfth graders, and I am trained to do so. Everything I have learned in this education shudders and cries every single episode of this show. Although I realize that, yes, this is a comedy and that these tempestuous relationships drive the story-lines and fuel the characters of this show, every single thing at that high school is wrong in a myriad of ways.

1.) Student-Student Relationships.

One thing that is noticeable from early on is the social hierarchy of the school, a trite concept that I'm not sure really exists in this way too much anymore (at least, it wasn't my experience in high school). Glee kids are at the bottom of the social totem pole while jocks, particular football jocks, are at the top. The football players consistently harass the glee kids, throwing them into lockers and, most popular among them, throwing slushies in their faces on a daily basis. 

In the second season, we see a more focused view on Kurt and his being attacked by another student Karofsky for being gay, partly because Karofsky is struggling with his own sexuality. This abuse, that goes as far as a threat of murder, happens from the first season until Karofsky's behavior warrants him an expulsion that gets overturned and Kurt, out of fear for his safety, is forced to transfer.

What bothers me is that teachers and administration fully know about this abuse and this social hierarchy, and nothing of substance is ever done. Will Schuester in one episode even remarks, "I can't imagine how it'd feel to get a slushie thrown in my face," acknowledging that he knows this is happening but has not reprimanded students, demanded detention or suspension, or brought to the administration that students are dealing with this kind of harassment and abuse and that something should be done.

When Karofsky's expulsion by the school-board was overturned for "lack of evidence", I couldn't help but cry "Bullshit!" Many people, including faculty (like Will Schuester) have witnessed Karofsky bully students. No doubt, these collective voices could have done something. Even then, he should have been disciplined in some way. All he got was barely a slap on the wrist.

What really bothers me is that the adults in power are willfully letting the students suffer through a clearly unsafe environment, but it doesn't just end there. I mean why would they bat an eye at student on student violence when there is...

2.) Sue Sylvester.

Sue is the comedic relief of the show. I get it. Her attempts to bring down New Directions and make her Cheerios the absolute best is part of the many conflicts that show the growth of characters and provide fodder for the show.

What boggles my mind, however, is how the hell Sue Sylvester isn't fired, blacklisted, and arrested yet.

Many times, it's brought up that Sue and her Cheerios' many championship wins have provided much prestige and money to the school and because of this, Sue has carte blanche to do whatever the fuck she wants at that school, even abuse students.

Yes, whenever Sue is angry, she is always seen screaming at students, pushing them into walls, pushing them into lockers, and pushing them down stairs. You read that correctly: pushes them down stairs.

She doesn't even try to be coy or secretive about it. She's mentally, emotionally, and abused many students in front of other faculty members and in front of the principal.

The principal.

She's hacked into the principal's email to redirect the glee club's flight to Libya, blackmailed the principal and other faculty members, manipulated students and staff to do her bidding, is forcing her students to partake in a restrictive diet that looks like fodder for eating disorders, tried to shoot a student out of a cannon that was proved to be clearly unsafe, and through all of this, she is still able to have a job? No one has complained about her? The principal witnesses her flagrantly, repetitively abusing those whom they are all supposed to protect, and she still has a job?! I'm horrified. As funny as Sue can sometimes be, because other times she's simply terrible, there is no way in hell this woman should be around human beings let alone children, no matter how much money and influence and headlines she brings to the school. Hell, I'm even surprised no parent has gone to the school to demand she lose her job for abusing his/her child, but then again, why would they since in Glee...

3.) Parents Clearly Don't Exist.

Students throughout the two seasons have been involved in all kinds of mischief. Mercedes stuffed tater tots in the exhaust pipe of Sue's car, Puck exists, Finn walked down the hallway in his draws, so on and so forth. Yet, when these students get into trouble, you'd think the administration would contact parents to deal with this behavior, right?

Please. What show are you watching? Parents aren't responsible for their kids' actions; their glee teacher is.

That's right. Every single time a student is in trouble, the principal talks to the student, Will, maybe Sue, and maybe Emma, the guidance counselor. The parent is always absent from the conversation and any contributing to any punitive decision that is made. 

This, to me, is mind-boggling. Although a teacher is, and should be, held accountable for what goes on with students under their watch, things that happen outside of school (like deflating the tires of rival glee club members' cars) or things that happen in the hallway is NOT Will Schuester's responsibility. Even then, parents should still be aware of what happened with their kids, especially for extreme punishments.

Hell, you don't even know who the parents are of the majority of kids, as many times as they have gotten in trouble. You know Kurt's dad, Finn's mom, and Quinn's parents, and that's it. No matter how many times the other kids have been in trouble, even Puck's going to juvie, you never see their parents. EVER.

But why would you need a parent when you have...

4.) Will Schuester, the Most Inept, Unqualified, Ridiculous Teacher EVER

I like Will. He's a nice, charming, passionate, kind-hearted guy, full of good intentions.

However, he should not be teaching anybody's children.

Will does not have the capacity to be a good teacher. The only way he would be worse is if he got Britney pregnant. He doesn't do what needs to be done or what should be done when it should happen. Many times, his glee club will make poor remarks to each other, curse each other out, demean them, or almost get into a fight, but he hardly ever calls them out on it. Instead he asks them to just express their feelings through song or ignores them and continues/changes the subject. Really?

Don't forget about he knows the abuse his students are suffering by jocks that he does absolutely nothing about.

Don't forget that the only reason Finn is in New Directions is because Will planted a stash of weed in Finn's locker or book bag and blackmailed him into joining.

And how do you let your Glee club get all the way to New York for Nationals without not NARY A SONG TO SING?!

Oh, and in preparation for Nationals he held auditions for a solo spot in the performance and judged with Jesse, boyfriend of the annoying being that is Rachel, college flunk-out, ex-rival glee club member who decided to become a "show choir consultant." During these auditions, he played the Simon Cowell role, saying untrue, intentionally hurtful things about the person's audition no matter how well he/she did (oh, except for Rachel). Did Will Schuester check that dude, kick him out, and say, "You can't talk to (my) kids like that!"?

Of course not.

He sat there looking stupid as this guy unfairly ripped into his kids, their work ethic, their look, and their voices and said not a word. Oh, he attempted to stand up for Mercedes, but in the end he just slid down into his chair and sat on his hands and said nothing.

Just like he said nothing about Kurt and Karofsky. 

Just like he said nothing for all his glee kids getting cold beverages thrown in their faces. 

Just like he said nothing for all the students being harassed and beaten by Sue. 

Nothing.

But he can get a backbone when it comes to trying to get Emma, including trying to steal her away from the man that becomes her husband.

It's sad because Will clearly cares about his students; he, again, just fails to be a teacher and do what needs to be done to protect students and create a positive, healthy, safe environment for them to learn and thrive.

Oh, by the way, Will, when a student is pregnant or kicked out his/her house (Quinn) or involved in unsafe activities or in unsafe situations (Sam's homelessness, student abuse), there is a thing called "mandated reporting" that you, as a teacher, are required to do by law. So his sitting on his hands = fired.

This is all I can think of for now, but as a teacher, these are issues very important to me, and honestly I'm horrified as I watch the show most times. Although they probably wouldn't believe it, I loved all the kids I student-taught, and I would have willingly cussed Sue out if I saw her put a hand on my kids. I don't play that; I'm from Chicago, and I don't play that, joe!

Since Glee is very popular amongst children who are in schools, I think it's relevant and apt to talk about what schools do, and don't do, to perpetuate unsafe conditions for students and what teachers should be doing in their relationships with their students and in their roles of influencing the students' relationships with other students. If kids watching Glee are saying, "My school is like that!" in any negative way, we know that something must be done, and soon.

God knows we need education reform as it is. 

A Note on Amy Winehouse (I Was Mad, so Excuse My Language)

Anyone dying young of any reason is a tragedy.

One thing I hope is that people take the time to truly understand how addiction works.

I don’t know everything, and I’ve gotten my Addiction Degree fromIntervention. But clearly, I know more than the assholes on Twitter and Facebook today.

Addiction isn’t cut and dry. It’s not easy to break from addiction. It’s not easy to just say, “I’m tired of doing crack/heroin/LSD/cocaine/drinking/smoking/having sex/insert your vice here.” Just because YOUR addiction can take a slow death (i.e. smoking cigarettes) versus someone doing hardcore drugs doesn’t make you better and it doesn’t justify his/her death.

Amy Winehouse may not have acted the way you would HOPE to if you had her addiction, but her death is still a tragedy. And after hearing that she was self-medicating because she had Bipolar disorder makes this even more sad and should lead you to educate yourself about mental illness and addiction.

Addiction alters your brain and how it works. It causes you to make ill-informed decisions against your better judgment. Anyone who is able to survive it and recover and say no day by day is a miracle. An absolute miracle. For someone to succumb to it is abysmal and horrible. Don’t trivialize it. At all.

Her not beating her addiction is not her fault. And to say that she was a mere crackhead who wasted her time on earth or who didn’t take advantage of the help offered her or how her death doesn’t matter because Beyonce is alive shows your ignorance your lack of humanity and your overall fucked-from-behind mentality.

People often want to know why I don’t drink or do certain things. Some may believe that it’s because of my religion and faith, but it’s not.

I don’t drink because I know who I am and where I’ve come from. I know that I have poor impulse control in a lot of ways, that I have addictive tendencies in a lot of ways. It’s a miracle that I haven’t succumbed to peer pressure and social pressure and taken a sip of alcohol. Because, honestly, with the shit I have to deal with every day and the shit I’ve dealt with in the past is enough to make anyone drink themselves until they die. I just choose, every day, to live with my shit soberly. And it’s not easy. It is never easy.

And I’m not better than Amy or anyone else who has fought addiction and won or lost simply because by the grace of God I haven’t taken a hit of anything. And as depressing as her death is, I’m glad that she’s free of her pain, her addiction, and the bullshit she had to live with.

Educate yourself on addiction and mental illness. Get yourself or your loved one help today. Remember empathy and compassion goes a long way.

And for God’s sake, conduct yourself as if you can actually be a decent human fucking being.

I'm Annoyed.

First thing's first, I'm moving to Milwaukee, which is why when I saw that on the side of CNN's website an article about the Milwaukee Public Schools laying off more than 300 teachers, my interest was piqued.

That quickly turned into annoyance. I frequently see some politician lamenting on television or on Twitter or in some article about how upset they are about our public schools, how the United States are low on worldwide educational performance lists, how our kids aren't doing well and aren't learning. But how can you be upset when you take money away from the education budget to give to the prison industrial complex, refuse to make our kids whole and well-rounded beings by cutting arts education, by laying off and firing teachers because you can't afford to keep them, by thinking the best way for kids to learn is by shading in a goddamn circle on a standardized test?

As much talking as all these politicians are doing and have done for years, there has been no real progress Hardly anyone in office is fighting for education, for teachers, for districts, and--most importantly--for students. And when this fighting isn't happening, when education isn't high on politicians' priority list our schools are going to continue to fail. Our students are going to continue to fail. Our country is going to continue to fail. And we'll continue to get ridiculous fools in office who don't understand how education works and continue to think that performance on standardized tests indicates intelligence.

It's ridiculous. I want more. I want reform. We need reform. And it needs to happen now.

"Man Down"

So apparently, conservatives are in a tizzy about Rihanna’s video “Man Down” where she’s shown murdering a man. I’d like to call horseshit.

Please know that I am not a Rihanna fan. Nor do I advocate violence, blah blah blah.

What bothers me, however, is that while all these people are upset that she murdered someone, none of them are talking about the fact that her character murdered someone because he sexually assaulted/raped her. The focus is on the fact that she murdered her assailant rather than that she did it because she was violated in one of the worst ways you can violate a woman.

This right here, this uproar with ignoring the incident that informed Rihanna’s character’s actions? RAPE CULTURE.

Murder is wrong; I get it; I know it; I believe it. But to say it’s irresponsible for Rihanna to show this kind of “violence” on television diminishes the role we play from keeping the story in “Man Down” from becoming reality.

Why don’t we talk about why Rihanna’s character killed the man who assaulted/raped her? Maybe it’s because 60% of sexual assaults don’t get reported, partly because women (and men) don’t feel safe enough and supported enough to report them. Some of them, too, don’t feel like justice would be done; I mean, look at the woman from NYC raped by the police officer! Even when women do report their rapes and it’s prosecuted, acquittals happen more often than convictions. And because of this the victim is degraded and considered a liar, whore, etc. And who wants to deal with that? Kobe anyone?

RAPE CULTURE.

Why don’t we talk about the fact that rape kits sit untouched for years, hindering prosecution? Why don’t we talk about the fact that there are statutes of limitations on rape? Why don’t we talk about the seeming lack of care we have for victims and for women so they feel safe enough to walk out their houses (or in their houses) and say with certitude “I doubt I’ll get raped today”? Why don’t we talk about the fact that clearly we continue to ignore the roles men play in rapes and sexual assaults but continue to victim-blame and discuss how appropriately a woman should react? Or the fact that we play the “hush hush, sweep the dirty secrets under the rug” with rape victims in our families or even in our churches? Catholics/Eddie Long anyone?

RAPE CULTURE.

It’s all bullshit to me, complete bullshit. Instead of being angry at Rihanna for depicting a violence that exists for so many women, why don’t these conservatives, parents, what-have-you work on actual legislation and culture-changing that brings these men (and women) to justice? Why don’t they stop focusing on the abstract and focus on the reality?

Women are raped; they are sexually assaulted; and when they aren’t helped, tragedies occur from depression to other mental illnesses to murder to suicide.

That’s a reality that Rihanna can’t change, at least not by herself. But it’s something we all can work on.

But that won’t happen because people are too busy worrying about what Rihanna put in her music video to focus on the realities. |files nails|

Apparently, This Needs To Be Said: Victim-Blaming is Bullshit

I was on Jezebel today and came across this article.

In case you don't know, two NYC police officers were on trial, and acquitted, of rape of a young woman who was drunk. According to reports, the officer raped her while the other officer was a lookout. A 9-11 call was faked, the officer went back to her that night around four times...it's just an all-around horrible, horrible tale of police misconduct and human depravity.

What's worse is that in said article, the wife of the police officer apparently said that the victim should go to hell, that she hates the victim, and that the victim should go to jail.

Wait, WHAT?!

So, apparently, this needs to be said.

1.) You, male or female, need to get consent before you engage in any kind of sexual activity with someone. If a person is under a certain age, no matter if he/she says yes, one cannot legally give consent. If you don't get this consent, this is considered rape.

2.) If a person is drunk or inebriated, he/she cannot give consent. If you have sex with a person under the influence, this is considered rape.

3.) Blaming the victim is the worst thing you can do. It is never a victim's fault for enduring rape. There is no amount of clothes you can wear, nothing you can do, no place you can go to prevent rape. A person is raped because someone raped them. And, yes, your husband is capable of rape. Your father is capable of rape. Your pastor is capable of rape. Focus on them and their seriously troubling actions instead of telling victims they should go to Hell because they were taken advantage of in a state where they couldn't defend themselves.

4.) Cops are supposed to protect and serve, not rape.

5.) As a woman, she should be ashamed of herself. It's horrible for men to blame victims of rape for their crime, but it's doubly grating to see a woman who is oppressed by the same society and could easily herself become a victim of rape blaming a victim or something her raping-ass husband did. How she can sit next to him, defend him, and spew hate for the victim is mind-boggling to me. And frankly, it's disgusting as hell.

Instead of blaming the victim, why don't we support her and other rape victims? She didn't ask for this to happen to her; she didn't seek out a penis to be forced into her vagina.

And while we're at it, why don't we, I don't know, focus on these men who apparently think it's okay to take advantage of and rape a drunk person? Why don't we deal with the rape culture we live under daily? Why don't we teach our men (and some of our women) that rape is never okay and should be punished under the fullest extent of the law? Why don't we end the statutes of limitations on rape? Why don't we make sure police make rape cases a priority so rape kits aren't backlogged? Why don't we teach our girls (and our boys) that it is never their fault if they are raped?

But I guess that shit's way too hard. So let's go back to telling a rape victim she should go to hell. You know, as if she doesn't feel like she's already there.

Scars, Or My Lack Thereof

I've been thinking about this a lot recently because it comes up a lot in conversations with many different people.

Many people are shocked when I reveal to them that I have no scars. I actually have two little ones: one I got from shaving my legs in high school, the other when I cut my arm on a massage chair at Bed, Bath, and Beyond (don't ask). However, both of these scars have faded so much that it's almost impossible to find them. Yes, my skin is the bomb.

I wasn't the kind of child to do things that could potentially hurt me; I'm still not. I refused to join my brothers in jumping off our back porch when we were kids. The first time I fell while attempting to learn to ride a two-wheeler was the last time I rode a bike. I didn't climb trees, and I didn't do too much of playing outside (I live on the south side of the Chi for God's sake).

I've always been the kind of girl who stayed inside and read, wrote, or watched television. I played usually by myself, unless you counted my Barbie dolls. That's just how I was; and it's still how I am.

And I don't feel like I missed out on anything. I hold no regrets about it. My childhood, despite other issues and problems, didn't leave me in want or yearning for the things my peers did that I "missed out on." I knew who I was at a young age, and still hold these tendencies now. They've helped me and saved me.

I have basically no scars. I've never broken a bone. Since I was born, I've never spent the night at a hospital for any reason. I've never been rushed to an ER. And I don't brag on these things or think I'm better than anyone else for it.

It's simply the truth. And I don't regret it at all.

Fat Fashion Fun: Easter Edition

I know Easter was a long time ago. Shut up.

Sometimes, I feel like dressing up and looking cute. And I thought Easter Service at Church was the best time for it.

The white shrug/half-cardigan/whatever was from Ashley Stewart. So is this beautiful orange dress I'm rocking.

Without the thingy. It's strapless!

I act funny sometimes.

Here's a better picture of the jewelry. I'm sure you've seen both the earrings and the necklace before. And, of course, they're from Claire's. I don't know where I got the headband.

My orange shoes are from Payless! Aren't they pretty?

Ladies, it's Spring. Don't let bright colors keep you insecure. Many of them bring out the best in you and your skin. Do it up! Do it big!

Also, go strapless. Do it. Don't say anything. Just do it! 8D

Reclaiming Our Bodies From Hateful Language

I was thinking last night while I was making my PB&J sandwich about how we talk about our bodies and the bodies of other people. Why? I don't know, but it was something that intrigued me.

Words like "bootydo" (i.e. her stomach sticks out farther than her booty do), "muffintop", "moobs", even "beanpole" and "stick" for skinny people becomes language we use to hate the bodies of others and of ourselves. Even "LOVEhandles" gets a bad rap! The assumption is that we a.) have the right to hate, discriminate, and alienate others simply because of what they weigh and how their bodies look; b.) they deserve that treatment; and c.) we can treat ourselves that way as well.

Even the best people have done this, including myself, simply because it's hard breaking away from the fatphobia/fat-hate one has always been reared with. However, I'm making myself more conscious of the terms I use when talking about my body and the bodies of others. I'm making myself aware, too, of the nonverbal cues I give off when I do the same because facial expressions still hold the clues of what you feel even when you fail to form those feelings into words.

If anything, the language we utilize to describe the bodies of others tend to be fueled by disgust and loathing. If we're going to be better human beings committed to ending eating disorders, cutting, depression, and things of that nature, a good start is noticing what we say to people about their bodies or what they eat. We have to be aware of the language we describe ourselves with when we look, or refuse to look, in the mirror. We have to be committed towards reclaiming our bodies from the language used to make us feel inferior to what's socially acceptable. We must treat our sisters and brothers with love and respect to help them love and accept their own bodies. Most importantly, we have to be the strongest advocates for ourselves, refusing to let the ignorant comments of others reflect on who we are as individuals.

Cast down your every thought; replace it with positivity. Reflect; find something good to say about what you see. Change your thoughts about what a woman or man should be or look like.

And check your language; check the language of others as well.

Me and My Jean Shorts

Right now, I'm wearing the first pair of shorts I've ever bought, which were purchased last summer. For many people, wearing shorts is simply a decision regarding weather and fashion, and nothing more.

For me it's different. For my entire teenage years and college career, you've probably never seen me wear a pair of shorts. The only time someone saw me wear them was if I was in my apartment/house and I probably had little else to wear. I had never stepped out of my domicile in a pair of shorts until last summer.

I was thinking today that there is something freeing about simply wearing a pair of shorts. For so long, I was committed to never letting anyone beyond family see my legs. I was so insecure about the way I looked, about my body, that I covered up every part of myself except for my face. In high school, I constantly wore hoodies in addition to jeans. I shamed myself into portraying myself as merely a face and two hands.

So lying here on my bed and feeling the cold air of my room caress and envelop my legs reminds me of how far I have come, how I've shed the weight of scrutiny and inferiority, which honestly weighs more than I ever could. Being free of that burden has allowed me to live a more liberated existence where embarrassment and self-hate don't exist. Making the conscious decision to even wear a pair of shorts, for me, is one that exudes courage.

Besides, my butt looks great in these shorts too. 8D

Strictly For The Ladies...And Very Curious Gentlemen

I went to the doctor last week because I was being attacked by itching and rashes out of nowhere. I knew shit was serious when it started affecting my face. My face has always been spotless: I never got acne nor did I ever get too many pimples. To this day, I get one pimple every couple months and can pop it with no problems or scarring.

I got that situation taken care of, but while I was there my doctor asked if I've gotten a Pap smear done since I'm twenty-two and I guess about that time. I told her that when I was a senior in college, I went to the gynecologist just because I wanted to be proactive about my health and all that good stuff. When I went, we couldn't even DO anything because she couldn't get the speculum into my vagina because I was tense, nervous, and "too tight." She said since I am a virgin I don't have to worry about it until I either start becoming sexually active or get to some age. Because of this, I was a bit shocked when my current doctor decided it's a good time to put my vagina is someone's face.

I get it; I want to make sure I don't have any issues and all that good stuff, but, really, really?! Is there no consensus over when I need to go to the vag-lady?! This stuff isn't comfortable and having a metal object pushed into ones virginal vagina is not a pleasant experience nor one I want to relive any time soon. It's not fun. IT'S. NOT. FUN.

I'm sure I'll do whatever I'm advised to do. But, seriously, if one person couldn't get the speculum in, what makes you think you can?! My vagina is clearly not interest in inviting anyone in to play. We're cool over here, yo.

Do you have vag-lady/vag-man horror stories? Share in the comments!

Fat Fashion Fun: It's My Body, and I'll Wear Leggings If I Want To

Frequently, I've seen on Twitter, Facebook, and other places on the internet phrases identical to "Fat women have no business wearing leggings and skinny jeans." For all people who believe this, with all due respect, you're full of shit.

As you well know, I love my skinny jeans. I also ABSOLUTELY ADORE my leggings. They're comfortable, and they're cute. Most of all, I look cute in them!

And just to show you how cute I look, here are a couple of pictures showcasing one of my greatest fashion visions. Ladies, wear your leggings; wear them with pride!

Note: Excuse the cluttered room and box of pads. However, ladies I co-sign Always Infinity with every fiber of my being. |nods|

I wore this dress to my college graduation. I re-appropriated it for a more casual affair.

The dress is from Dots.

Long-sleeved black shirt from Old Navy.

The bracelet is from Ashley Stewart.

This beautiful necklace, like most of my jewelry, is from Claire's and so are the wonderful earrings.

The shoes are the same wedges I wore in a previous post.

Feel free to comment on my greatness!

For Lindsay: Halle & the One-Drop Rule

My good buddy Lindsay asked me about how I felt about Halle's recent comments regarding her daughter Nahla and the so-called "One-Drop Rule." Here is my treatise.

Here is the conversation in question, cited in the March 2011 edition of Ebony Magazine:

Ebony: [Nahla's] father is French-Canadian Gabriel Aubry. Do you consider Nahla to be Black or multiracial? How do you think about it?

Berry: What I think is that that's something she's going to have to decide. I'm not going to put a label on it. I had to decide for myself, and that's what she's going to have to decide--how she identifies herself in the world. And I think, largely, that will be based on how the world identifies her. That's how I identified myself. But I feel like she's Black. I'm Black and I'm her mother, and I believe in the one-drop theory.

There's no set-in-stone way to raise a biracial or multiracial child, and trying to raise a child who is secure and happy is hard enough without having to help him/her work through the confusion that often comes with being biracial or multiracial. I laud Berry for not wanting to place labels on her daughter; however, I have a problem with implementing a practice used by slave-masters to oppress black people in one's parenting.

Of course Nahla's black. Halle's half-black, and she'll undoubtedly identify with her mom's heritage. Also, society will see her as black because she has a mother who self-identifies as such. However, Nahla is also white. Her father is white. It'd be erroneous for any of us, including Halle, to act as if that part of her doesn't exist and that we treat her as if that part of her doesn't exist. How can we ask any biracial or multiracial child to shun any part of her/him?

I can't help but wonder if Halle's seeing her daughter as black has to do with the recent firestorm with her ex and Nahla's father Gabriel Aubrey. I wonder if she's so embittered by their break-up and his wanting more custodial rights that it colors the way she sees her child, that Halle wants to see her daughter as identifying more with her in this custody battle than her father. I wonder if it's a way to make her daughter love the part of herself given by her mother more than the part of her given by her father.

So of course having black blood makes you black; however, that doesn't mean that a child has to choose or be exclusively one race or ethnicity. We have to allow children to choose their own identity, and it shouldn't be influenced by society. If we allowed others to define us, we'll be forever miserable. We have to live this life; we have the right to decide who we are, whether we identify as black or white or multiracial. We have the right to love every single part of ourselves.

Let's leave behind slave practices. Why use the antiquated "One-Drop Rule" to govern our relationships and self-identities, a rule meant to oppress that is still doing so by forcing children to deny a part of themselves?

I don't know everything about Halle's situation, but there is more here than is being said. I wish we would stop operating with worthless and baseless traditions that do more harm that good when it comes to how we relate with each other, how we perceive each other, and how we receive ourselves.

That's my answer, Lindsay, and I'm sticking to it!

Church Observations (Part Two)

I always knew that I was going to do a sequel to my post Church Observations. Let's be real: so much crazy and annoying stuff happens in church that I could write hundreds of posts on it. I've been waiting to write this sequel, gathering information and briefly changing my attention from the service to write these things down lest I forget.

Without any further ado, here's Church Observations Part Two.

Check the rhyme every time.

1.) How are you going to tell me to worship and communicate with God and then keep talking? You're distracting. Shut up, and let me talk to Jesus!

2.) You might be praising God, but you're still a parent. Get your damn kid! You can't bring teenagers to church with you to watch your kid. You can't leave your infant on your seat and have your friends in the row in front of you to watch your kids. Stop it.

3.) Your kid is misbehaving. That kid is autistic. Sit down, and shut up.

4.) You don't know what I've come to do? (You don't know what I've come to do?) You came to clap your hands (your hands). You came to stomp your feet (your feet). You came to do your dance (your dance). I came to sit my ass down (ass down)!

5.) It's unfair to ask and expect women, especially those with DDs, to "leap for joy."

6.) The sound people mess up everything.

7.) Tyler Perry and the black church have made people think any and everybody can act and write and be funny. Sigh.

8.) Why do we need to cut the music and hear the audience sing? Why does that get the worship leader on a high, especially if this is supposed to be about God? Hmm...whatever.

9.) Church litterers are full of shit. You hate when your kids leave their toys all over the floor of your house but you and they can leave church envelopes and gum wrappers all over the floor of the sanctuary?! HAVE A SEAT, SIR!

10.) I can't praise God with your fucking camera in my face! Go tape the choir! Shit.

11.) That's such an upbeat song about murder. Of our Savior. But, hey, do you. |files nails|

12.) So you're just going to keep talking and not listen during church? Rude!

13.) Your homophobia and heterosexism is not cute, and nothing can make me stop listening to your sermon quicker. By the way, you can't and shouldn't be cured of homosexuality!

14.) Your stance on mental health is appalling. People who suffer from depression aren't depressed because they don't have material items. Some people have chemical imbalances. Some people have been raped. Some people have had shitty childhoods. Some people are fighting past and inner demons. Go learn something. Besides, Jesus gave us medication and therapy for a reason. People who are sad about not having material items are usually just sad.

15.) Gospel songs can be so corny some times.

16.) So we're texting in church now? Okay.

17.) So...when do you want to end this song? Any time soon?

18.) By the way, I think this prayer can end now too. I think Jesus understands that you're thankful. You don't have to keep repeating it.

19.) Everyone, going up an octave does not equal singing louder. It doesn't. It doesn't.

20.) Stop talking about things you don't know anything about, such as The Big Bang Theory (the scientific theory not the great television show) and evolution. You're misleading people and telling blatant lies to your congregation that they're just going to sop up and spread. Talk about what you actually know about and leave the deep shit to the more and better educated.

21.) Isn't it funny how a person can catch the Holy Ghost and run around screaming in church and we don't even bat an eye?

Who's ready for Part Three!?

Finish What You Start

On January 31 I finally finished my [insert number here]st/nd/rd/th novel Pacemaker, affectionately known as PM. It's, in my opinion, one of my finer pieces, an establishment of myself as a capable and creative writer.

There was a problem, though. I'm not at all satisfied with the way it ended.

Here's the full story. There was no reason in the world for it to have taken so long for me to end the novel in the first place. I had been working on the novel since June of 2008 and the last six months or so I've sat in the same exact place in the novel, almost at its culmination, for no reason. Because of this, I resolved to end PM by the end of January.

I kept this in mind but it really didn't become palpable to me until January 29th. I panicked a bit; I had procrastinated and needed to get this done. I needed to finally end this novel so I can continue working on The Lie (TL2) and keep thinking about Like. I spent the 30th barely thinking and the 31st writing. By 11:58 on the night of the 31st, I was done, but I wasn't happy. All throughout the day, I had fought finishing the novel tooth and nail, fighting, kicking and screaming. I hated the writing process; I hated the way it ended.

I knew this wasn't right. I remembered the writing process when I ended Smoke in the Midnight Sky (SMS). As sad as it was to end the novel and how personal writing the afterword was, I knew I was writing something I wholeheartedly believed in. I believed I was writing well; I enjoyed writing its end. It was all quality, and it was a work I was, and am still, proud of. This didn't happen this go round.

I found out what was the problem though. I always see advice to writers saying "Don't think; just write" and kept that in mind as I hurriedly finished PM. I, unfortunately, just don't work that way. If I write prose, I have to constantly turn things around in my head before I write or type it out. I need to plan every word a character speaks; I need to visualize the scene; I need to match words to character movements; I must channel emotions into each word so the reader can sense as tangibly as I can.

At the same time, it became less about enjoying writing and more about meeting a deadline. I was racing the clock. I was trying to get it done, and that cramped my writing style. I was trying to figure out why I wasn't writing as well as I have before, and it was because I wasn't focused on the right thing. I was looking at the finish line rather than paying attention to how I was racing.

We writers know that the end product, the finished work of art, is the goal; that's our bread and butter. We can't make money without it; we can't sufficiently reach an audience without it. However, you have to know what kind of writer you are and how you work, accept it and not go against it. We have to meet deadlines but not to the disadvantage and sacrificing of how we perceive our art.

PM is done for now, but I have some editing to do, and this end will not suffice. I know I'm capable of more and better. I owe myself and my readers this. When PM is ready to be done, it'll be done. And this is the way I work. This is the way I write.

Something Doesn't Seem Right.

I feel like I need to smack more people.

Give me a couple days to get my Carpal Tunnel issues settled, and it's GOING DOWN. Elevator.

Day Eight: Letter to Your Favorite Internet Friend

Dear Rhianna,

I find it weird that this letter is supposed to be for your favorite internet friend. I know we first met on the internet, writing fan fiction on the B2K board, but I don’t see you as my “internet friend.” I see you as one of my dearest and closest friends.

I honestly don’t know where I would be if you hadn’t come into my life. I wonder what my writing would look like. Would I even still be writing? I wonder how I would view dating and relationships, or would I still be going back and forth about it as I did for about, what, five years? Maybe a bit longer? Who would I be doing the TTOTD with!?

On a more serious note, I love what we have. You’re like the little sister I never had and never wanted. Ha ha! What’s even more bizarre is how close we are despite never having met face to face. You, Tikez, and I have just an amazing friendship that crosses time zones, state lines, and country borders, and despite school and all that good stuff, we’ve managed to stay close. I’m closer to you than anyone I graduated high school with, and we knew each other in high school.

I worry about you a lot. I worry about the people you’ve met and what you do with them. I know I might come across as an uptight prude. That might be true. However, I just worry about you, and I don’t trust the all the people you trust, all of them being from the male persuasion. I give you the right to be your own person and make your own adult decisions, but I reserve the right to dislike them. I trust, though, that you know what you’re doing. I believe that you’re a lot smarter than I give you credit for, simply because I’m hesitant and safe.

I also think that you’re a phenomenal writer. I joke about missing Kyle, and I do, but I miss what you do with the written word. I believe you have so much to contribute to literature, and you’re so much better than many of the books I see in the bookstore. I know school has you bogged down and busy, but I hope that one day you’ll have the time to get back on the writing saddle. I’d love to read anything you’ve written. As a matter of fact, I need to see where I have FP stored and read it!!!

I know you believe you’re not “capable of love.” I would like to call bullshit. I think you’re very capable of love, and as you already know, I’m looking forward to the day you get married and have three kids, and give me five dollars. That day will be beautiful and glorious. I can’t wait.

I love you, and I wish you well. I wish you a wonderful career, and I hope that you get everything you’ve ever wanted out of life, except for the no marriage and kids thing. I hope you have those things because it’d be great, and I’d love it. Honestly, though, I pray for your safety, your success, and for your happiness. You deserve it all. You have been a wonderful friend, and I look forward to the adventures we’ll have separately that we’ll share and the adventures we’ll have together, especially when we finally meet!

Love always,

Kimberly

Day Seven: Letter to Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush

I'm way behind, but I want to catch up. I'll post the letters I want to share but put them on the date they were supposed to be up.

While writing this letter, I was surprisingly emotional. I even had to take a break because I started tearing up, and I'm too much of a #hardassthugtasticgangsta to cry and whatnot. But this letter was very therapeutic in a way. After writing "Hope You Die" and "Aggression" and other works that were very angry and accusatory, it was cool to let it all go, be open and honest about how I truly felt, to forgive and wish well.

I'm not going to put the person's name on it because I'm a punk, but I'm sure that anyone who knows me knows who this letter is for. Exhale.

Dear [YOU],

I haven’t talked to you in over four years at this point. I’ve seen your technological footprint on Twitter and Myspace, but I’ve never spoken, written, texted, messaged, or typed a word to you in over four years. If you told me this would be our relationship, or lack thereof, in 2005, I never would have believed it. We were close, very close.

But this is where we are. I don’t know who you are anymore; I don’t know the man who you grew into. I don’t know what you’re doing, how you are, or if you’re well. I don’t even know where you are. And it’s not because I don’t care. Shit like this just happens right?

I just never thought it’d be like this. I must admit that I’d been angry at you for years. I was angry that you told Nicole things like you were going to kiss me before we graduated, feeding into my already fantastic delusions of what things could be like between us. I was angry that you had sex with that girl in Andover; actually, I was devastated. The person I was at that time could not handle that kind of rejection. I tried to hold on to you in any way I could. I figured if I couldn’t be with you that we could still be friends. And I was angry that although you said that you felt Nicole and I were among those whom you felt you could be yourself with, you separated yourself from us, refused to be around us.

After realizing nothing would happen between us romantically, I was crushed by the end of our friendship. [YOU], I talked to you everyday. I remember you helping me through so many situations, including one instance of my brother telling me off. I remember you encouraging me as a writer, as a person. In such a fucked up time in my life, I remember you as a constant. I couldn’t understand your change during senior year that helped to create friction between us. I despised you for years for it.

As I grew older, though, I realized that I had taken none of the blame that I assigned to you. I was green in those days, so naïve, so desperate to be loved, and you didn’t owe that to me. You didn’t owe me anything. I was holding on to fantasies and dreams, trying to mold our relationship into them without realizing that it wasn’t what you or I needed.

We were kids, plain and simple.

You had your own issues, and I had mine. You sequestered yourself away from others and refused to let us in during your darkest moments. Ha. I guess we had, have more in common than I thought.

But I couldn’t continue to blame you for what I did. I loved you; I wanted you; I needed whatever I thought you could provide me. That wasn’t your obligation. I wanted reciprocation; I wanted love, and it wasn’t your duty to give it back to me. I can’t be angry with you for not loving me.

I still remember, though, that day freshman year. I had just come from the vending machine to get some Peanut M&Ms and a bottle of Dasani water. I needed to talk to Mrs. Douglass about what I missed in class the day before since I was on a field trip. As I rounded the corner to take the steps back to the old building, I ran right into you, dropping my water bottle. You picked it up for me, handed it back to me. And I had no idea that this moment was the start of a wonderful friendship.

It was wonderful while it lasted, before anger and aberrations. And to this day, it still seems awkward. I watch Living Single and remember watching it together and talking about it over IM. I see things that remind me of you; I stumble over IM conversations between us that I saved on my mom’s computer. I see your twitter page pop up in my suggested friends, or I see you comment on a mutual friend’s picture—I see all this and I can only feel regret and remorse at how things imploded between us, and I can only think about how things would have been had we stayed friends, just friends.

At times, I miss you. I miss your friendship; I miss how we vibed on music. I miss the conversations we had. I miss…you.

Sometimes, I get the urge to friend you on Facebook or send a follow request on Twitter or ask someone where you are or how you’re doing. I don’t because I don’t want to acknowledge that maybe the way I handled things with you was wrong, that I regret cutting you out of my life completely. I want to leave it up to you to reconnect when it was me who formally disconnected from you. And though at times I get the desire to reconnect, I don’t think I will simply because I’m honestly too much of a punk to do it. I can’t stand flatfootedly and do it after all that I’ve done.

At the heart of it all, I’ve said all of this to say that I forgive you; I hold no grudges. You have taught me so much about life, love, and myself, whether you know it or not. Most of all, I do not regret loving you. I’d never take back the intense emotions I felt for you. It produced great writing, but most of all it’s nice to care wholeheartedly about someone else. I know the person I’ll give it to will not be you, but I know I’m capable of it. I’ve grown as a woman, as a person because of what has and has not happened between us. I wouldn’t take it back. I don’t regret you. I honestly don’t regret you.

I sincerely hope that you, too, can one day forgive me for the dumb shit I’ve done. I hope that you are well, that you are prospering. I hope you find love, success, and happiness. That peace that you never seemed to have when we were teenagers, I hope you own it, that you wear it proudly, that you hold on to it. I wish that everything you’ve never had but always wanted is finally in your grasp. I wish you well; I wish you the best; I wish you a fruitful future and life.

Sincerely,

Kimberly

Day Six: Letter to a Stranger

Dear Stranger,

I often wonder as I drive why the person in front of me, behind me, going in the other direction, or parked of the side of the road at the exact same time as I am. I wonder, if I’m out late, what brings other people out so late. I wonder as I do the speed limit why someone would ride my tail, switch lanes, and speed off into the blackness of night, never to be seen by my eyes again.

I was driving a bit slowly as I came from my friend Jennifer’s house. I was trying to read my printed directions in the darkness while looking for the street I was supposed to turn on and maintain the correct speed limit, all without killing someone or myself. It was raining too, and the sides of my lane were a bit flooded. Taking all of this into consideration, I thought it best to slow down and play it safe.

But I noticed you driving very closely behind me, symbolically urging me to speed up. Clearly, you needed to get somewhere soon, now, and I was a hindrance to that. My refusal to increase my speed ultimately annoyed you, and you finally decided to go to the left-hand lane and go around me. Admittedly, I called you both a “crazy person” and a “dick.” That was wrong.

But what did you have to go to? Were you late for your night shift at work? Were you rushing to get home to see Hawaii 5-0? Were you racing to tuck your children to bed at night? I’d like to think there was a legitimate reason that you had to be so rude in the midst of my mini-turmoil.

Wherever you were going, I hope you got there safely. I hope, though, that you remember that sometimes it’s fine, even best, to drive slowly and that tailgating does not convince me to go any faster.

Thank you.

Sincerely,

Kimberly

Day Five: Letter to Your Dreams

Dear dreams,

This shit is getting way out of hand.

Remember when I dreamt I was pregnant in high school, the elation I felt that seemed to be a metaphor for wanting to birth something gorgeous and amazing? That was cool. And a couple months ago, I had a dream that I was a zombie-killing ninja. That was sweet. What about the one a couple years ago where I was a cop chasing a murderer through a mall with John McBain? Man, so hot!

But, now, these cool dreams have led into dreams of dismay and torment. It didn’t help that when I was applying for Teach for America, I had constant torturous dreams of not getting the position. And now, a couple days ago, I had a dream where I was being held hostage and raped. And if that wasn’t bad enough, it was all done by Craig. CRAIG.

Look, it doesn’t have to be all honky-dory. I don’t need to have fairy tale type dreams. What I would appreciate is not going to sleep and being chased by the BTK Killer. That would be magnificent.

I hope we have a good understanding now. Hopefully tonight, I’ll have a nice dream or not dream at all. Yay!

Sincerely,

Kimberly

Day Two: Letter to Your Crush

I currently don't have a crush. Going to Calvin and being unemployed will do that to you. With this letter, though, I'll make it general.

Also, I'm not posting tomorrow's letter because it's the one for your parents. That letter's not going to be pretty, and you don't want to see that. Nope. You just don't.

Anywho...

Dear Crush,

Admittedly, I am damaged goods. Honestly, you could do better. Maybe someone more demure, more feminine, more ladylike, less loud, less volatile, less troublesome. It'd probably be better for you to do like Isaac Hayes and walk on by.

But you'd be missing out.

Admittedly, I am damaged goods, but I'm also the best thing you could ever have and have wholly. I'm full of undeniable, unselfish love, and I'm willing to give it to you.

You deserve more than the best. I can imagine that your kind eyes only behold that which is priceless, that your smile is genuine and comes from truth, that your spirit can only be tied to a like and fine soul. I may not be this, but I'm willing to give as much as I can.

That's all I can promise---commitment, devotion, the dedication to amelioration, the desire to be what you need.

And I might fail, but I'm willing to try.

Sincerely,

Kimberly

You Might As Well Say "Fuck Yo Fat Ass"--The Sequel

I'm back to being my #hardassthugtasticgangsta self.

It has been brought to my attention that sizism and fatphobic tendencies are more hegemonic than ever before.

It was bad enough that I could turn on my television and no matter what I was watching and no matter the network, I would see a commercial about some food claiming to help me lose weight, some exercise equipment that would help me lose weight, some new fad diet that would help me lose weight, some new program that would help me lose weight, some diet pill to help me lose weight...you see the picture.

What's even worse is that now, we have a group of shows telling us about how our fat asses aint worth literal shit!

We already had The Biggest Loser and all it's so-called "inspiration" and melodrama. Now, other networks are taking it on to show us that we all can be beautiful and love ourselves if we'd get our fat asses out the refrigerator and worked out just like these self-loathing individuals. A&E has Heavy and MTV has I Used To Be Fat. They think that by watching these stories, we'd aspire to put down the ice cream and seven-course meals to be on our way to slimmed-down beauty and society's acceptance.

In addition, Jennifer Hudson won't shut up. Every time my television is on, I get to hear her sing and talk every commercial break about her weight loss and how we can do it too!

This pervasive bullshit is sickening, and it contributes to number of women with eating disorders and body issues.

Everywhere we turn, someone is telling us to lose weight, lose the love handles, lose the arm fat, but no one is telling us to love ourselves.

Even worse, what's being inculcated into viewers is that we will love ourselves ONLY when we lose weight. We'll stop bullying and teasing ONLY when we lose weight. That all plus-sized, fat, big, what-have-you, people are sitting around stuffing and hating themselves because they're fat. It's wrong, and it's ridiculous.

There are lies being told. Losing 90 pounds in 90 days like one girl from I Used To Be Fat who was on The View yesterday is not healthy. And she claims she'll keep it off once in college, but she's not going to be working out the 3-7 hours a day like she was doing as a home-schooled seventeen-year-old. She clearly has issues that need to be addressed through counseling. And more, what's going to happen when she gains weight, oh and she will gain weight? She'll only have love and self-acceptance tied with being smaller. She'll go back to binge eating. Those psychological scars will not have healed. The problems will still be there. She's simply on a road to inevitable disappointment.

This society, this world has a sick obsession with being skinny, disguised as being "health-conscious." There are too many people, some of whom I know, who have troubling views about themselves, their bodies, and other people. I'm worried about the things they say about themselves and the value they associate with having a smaller body, as well as the idea that one will finally love oneself when smaller. You won't. Until you work through those issues, you'll just find something else to hate and obsess over. Until we deal with our insecurities, no matter our size, we'll never find happiness. Losing weight for others doesn't work. When you realize you're fabulous no matter size and you love yourself unconditionally, the weight doesn't matter.

This is a burden undeservingly and unnecessarily owned by women. We own our insecurity. We dress it up, deify it. We put it on a pedestal. We obsess over it. And we refuse to discard it. But how can we when everywhere we turn, we're told we're not good enough? That no one will ever love us if we don't fix our fat asses? That we'll always be alone and worthless?

This bothers me so much. And until we as women collectively decide that this is not right and we don't need to accept this, it will stay the same. And we all will be forever barraged by Jennifer Hudson's damn vocals.

30 Day Letter Writing Challenge: Day One

What in God's name have I gotten myself into?!

One of my favorite poets Bassey Ikpi urged her followers on the Twitter to join her in a 30 Day Letter Writing Challenge. Since I haven't been writing like I should be doing, I thought this would be something good for me to do, something that would ameliorate and stretch me as a writer.

Can I say that this sucks!?

It sucks because as a person who tries her damnedest to shun all emotion, this shit is messing up my entire life. MY ENTIRE LIFE. I couldn't get through this first letter without crying bleeding corrosive acid from my eyes. Cuz I'm a hard-ass thugtastic gangsta like that.

I'm not sure if I'll post all the days on here, though it'd be a great incentive to write to the blog every day. Plus, I'm afraid it'd get too deep and honest. And we all know some people can't handle the truth. Mmhmm.

Anywho, Day One is a letter that's supposed to be written to your best friend. My BFF is my homes Mariana. Here's the letter I wrote.

Ugh. I'm feeling all vulnerable. I'ma make sure I balance this all out with my thugtastic gangsta. Like posts of me kicking babies and slapping crossing guards. Because I'm hard like that. WHAT!

Dear Mariana,

Hi. 8]

I’m so happy that you finally got that job! You worked hard throughout college, and you worked diligently after graduation to get to this place. I hope you had a great first day, and you have a great first week.

I know you probably feel like this has been a one-sided friendship lately, that you’re always the one reaching out to me, picking me up, driving places, planning things. I hope you know that it’s not because I’m not interested in being your friend, confidant, what have you. Things the past couple months have been difficult mentally, emotionally, and psychologically. I’ve pulled back from a lot of people in the attempt to stay sane, and unfortunately, others, especially you, have had to witness and deal with it. I’m getting better now, and I’m working through it. Thank you for your patience.

I don’t think you know how much I admire you. I was inspired by your organization and perseverance with applying for a position every week. I’m inspired by how all of your hard work has paid off. I’m in awe of the great person you’ve come to be. I could have never imagined that when we met during Passport briefly and reconnected during the Jeremiah retreat that you’d be my closest, most reliable friend.

You are tactful, understanding, fun, and you command respect. You have an amazing aura around you, and you are beautiful inside and out. In your most vulnerable of moments, I hope that you realize that, that you own that, that you exude that.

I hope you know that I love you dearly. You’ve kept me on track; you’ve kept me sane; and you’ve been my partner in crime for four years, whether it was dancing like maniacs while Lori was on the phone because we didn’t want to do our homework, watergun fights and being chased by crazy men wielding frosting-covered knives, prank-calling the boys in Delta, or sneaking out in the late-night hours to paint slander on the Rock outside TE. Oh, what wonderful times we have had!

As we move forward with our lives, I hope we have way more adventures together, especially when we finally strike out on our own. Watch out, world!

I wish you much more happiness, much more success, and everything else you want in this world. You deserve it all. And I love you more than you could ever know, and more than I know I show.

Sincerely,

Kimberly