50 shades of black (part I)

               So I have a secret. I am into, if not obsessed with, Fifty Shades of Grey. Billed as the adult twilight by some, this trilogy is about the unassuming college coed Ana Steele, who gets involved with mega rich bachelor Christian Grey. At first Mr. Grey wants to introduce Ana to the world of BDSM and have her as his submissive (a sexual partner who acquiesces to his demands of punishment and pleasure at will). He soon falls in love with her, and that’s where it gets interesting. Some people dismiss the book as erotica fiction, but true fans know its about a love story. My question for you is, could such a love story happen between a black man or a black woman in a book? What about in real life?

               In the books, Christian and Ana are forced to conquer inner and outer demons together. There struggle is made easier by the fact that, since nearly day 1, Christian is head over heels for Ana. He wants to be with her and do everything for her. He only has eyes for her, and is not ashamed to show it. When talking to some friends about the book (who were black females), most said that they could not see both characters being black. Why not? Is it the fact that Christian is P. Diddy rich that makes him seem rare for a black man? Is it that Ana is so willing to submit to her man that makes her seem unrealistic for a black woman? Is it the kinky sex that makes them both seem nonblack? Is it that there is very little drama between the two partners (no baby mamas, unemployment, no trust issues, or just the every day struggles of racism) that makes it hard to believe they could be black?

               In fiction and in real life, romance seems to come so much quicker and easier for white girls. I know so many white girls under 26 who are married, happily. I know far fewer black women in that predicament. Popular images of love and relationships dictate our expectations. Maybe the fact that we can’t believe in a black Christian and Ana is because we see so few examples of this in music, movies and literature. There are 50 shades of grey, but far fewer shades of black in popular culture.

              So what do you think? Can you think of great (contemporary) love stories between a black man and a black woman? Can you think of them in media? Can you think of them in your own life? Do you think you will find your Christian or your Ana? Does race have a part to play in the search for love?  

What's the purpose of all the broken pieces?

Growing up, I hated puzzles. I could never get the pieces to fit. Even though the box had a perfect image on the front, I could never seem to get my pieces fit quite the way I envisioned. For that reason, I usually ended up angrily throwing the pieces back into the box and walking away to pick up a simpler game, like Solitare. 

Now that I am older, I still hate puzzles. Whenever I pull them out, I quickly get assistants to put them together for me. They produce an anxiety in me. What if, despite my best efforts, they still don't fit together?

Lately, I feel like my life is like a puzzle. Lots of pieces, thrown together. However, unlike a puzzle, the pieces don't seem to quite fit. Some of them are broken. Fragments of friends, shards of family, blunt edges of dreams and small pieces of hope. Where do they all go? 

Maybe life is less like the puzzle, which is waiting for just the right arrangement of the pieces. Maybe it is more like a mosaic. Broken pieces, some to be discarded, but many there to be put together, arranged and rearranged. The beauty of a mosaic is that it combines things from multiple sources--- jewels and things that were once discarded, and puts them together to make a beautiful arrangement. Mosaics made out of the most delicate pieces, like glass, can reflect light. 

So maybe thats the purpose of all the broken pieces. To come together, to reflect light. 

The Holding it In Pattern

For the past year, every time I have been out to the club, these words have echoed in my ear. They say “tonight, I want all of you tonight. Give me everything tonight. For all we know, we might not last tomorrow, lets do it tonight!” Then a girls incomprehensible mumbling takes over, until Ne-Yo comes back even stronger telling me to “grab somebody sexy”. That part, I agree with. The former, however, makes me deeply uncomfortable.

The idea of giving one person, one job, one goal, one whatever, everything, is deeply unsettling to me. Like putting your eggs in one basket, if they drop you, or you drop it, what do you have? Nothing. You gave everything, though. I feel like the holding back pattern is one that I’ve adopted. I have been reluctant to give all of myself to my endeavors. Whether that means not giving all of myself to God, not giving all of myself in social or romantic relationships, or not giving all of myself to a goal by being over committed, I am reluctant to give one thing everything, all at once. That seems like a fast track to being let down…. No matter how enticing Ne-Yo and Pitbull make it sound.

What about you? Are you in the process of giving your all to a person, place or thing? How does it feel? 

The Holding Pattern

              Recently I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck. Having accomplished all of my goals, I am unsure about what motivates me. With nothing to strive for, and limited enjoyment with what I have, I have been feeling like I am in a holding pattern. Just like the planes, going in a circle, waiting for the right time to move. But this time, the time cannot be determined by me. Just like the planes, who need messages from above (air traffic control) and below (the landing crew), I feel like I am still waiting on signs from God and the world about where and when to move.

              A lot of people have been dismissive of this. They call it a funk, a mood, a depression. They call it ungreatful. “If I had what you had…” However, I do not think its my fault, or that it is necessarily a problem. The holding pattern is not a punishment for delinquent planes. It is something that many planes go through. Air traffic control must find them a time to land that will put them out of proximity to other planes. The ground staff must prepare the gates, so that when they land, there is something to usher them into their destination.  Like the holding pattern, I feel that the only thing for me to do is wait. Wait and see what the next sign is. And I am learning to be ok with it. After all, a holding pattern still means you are flying, right?

Let Me Be Your Motivation

What motivates you? Is it money? Is it love? Is it passion? Is it the desire to get better? Is it pure enjoyment?

Lately I feel that nothing is motivating me or inspiring me. Everything is bland and basic. Nothing is challenging for me. I have pretty good friends, but no one is particularly exciting or interesting. I have no lovers that make me swoon. I have no hobbies that keep me awake at night.  I am not participating in anything spiritual or intellectual that is larger than my self.  I do not feel particularly connected to a group or an entity. I am just floating…..

I am not unhappy. For the first time in a long time I can say that without having to wonder. I am not depressed or overly anxious. I am very much content with what I have and who I am, the path that I am on and the steps taken to get there. I am just not terribly excited about anything….

What is more unsettling to me is that I do not know what will motivate me. For the first time in a long time, I have no aspiration. I have done all that I have desired to do. Gone to school, made major purchases, seen the world.... I've done it all, at least, all that can be quantified. Of course, there is so much more. But what is that more…. Everything else is more conceptual (fall in love, produce something great, just grow and share myself)….

So, what should I do to shake myself out of this place?

Reflections on Zora & blackness

So many of us shoot for the stars. But how many of us jump at the sun? How many of us dare to leap at that big bright star and bask in its light? Zora Neale Hurston did. She identified dreams and pursued them. In a time where many thought it unfathomable, she traveled the world and studied black people. She didn’t talk about racism, Civil rights, or the downtrodden black person. Nor did she attempt to create an unrealistic view of us, presenting us as a superior race, or a group of people without diversity or complexity. She just told our story, with sweet language and a critical eye.

This week I visited the California African American Museum. I saw the film, Jump at the Sun, which chronicles Hurston’s life and work. Hurston was a writer and anthropologist, and she chronicled the lives of everyday black people. She didn’t present us as specimens for study, but as human beings, loving, living and exercising our humanity--- even in the confines of a country that sought to destroy our identity. Hurston had a whole souled love for black people, and she documented that, studied that and shared it, without apology.

This appreciation for blackness, unencumbered by hate toward or desire to be the “other” was and is totally foreign to me in today’s context. I have met few people that know and love black history, seek out black experiences, embrace black art and nurture black bodies.

These days I am left to wonder what public figures truly love black people? Many people study us, defend us, distract us, and (re) define us. But who loves us? When I turn on the reality shows (Basketball Wives, love and hip hop, real house wives), when I hear the commentary about our first black president, when I turn on the news and hear the staggering statistics about the abuse inflicted on black people and the abuse we inflict on ourselves, when I see our musical icons dying of suicide and substance abuse, when I go into a classroom of black children and hear them talk to each other or hear parents and administrators talk about them, I am left to wonder, who truly loves black people? Many educate, advocate for, and uplift…. But who loves the people who have been kissed by the sun? 

On the Road Again?

My heart is on the open road. It is in planes, trains and automobiles. It is in moving forward, seeing the beautiful things, touching history and imagining a future. It is in going places. I used to want to be an anthropologist. I used to want to travel the world and do documentary ethnographic research. Whatever that meant. It seemed cool to do. Somehow life got in the way of living. Fear set in, more immediate goals arose.

Last year I went abroad. It was a long time coming. It was fabulous. I don’t know how to describe it. Its like your soul, just opening up… I get the itch to go often, but I deny myself that urge. But every year, come spring, I’m ready to plan the summer with a vengance. I cannot pretend anymore that it is not exactly what I need.

So. I’m trying to decide. Should I travel this summer? When a lot of people answer these questions, they think of the hows. How will I fund it, how will I find the time? But I know for me, once I say yes, once I affirm it and accept it, the hows fall into place.

Right now it seems really foolish. I just got this new apartment and I don’t know where I will work in the fall. Financially it could be a big setback, or it might not make a dent.

One thing about me, I want to know all the rules, all the exceptions, and all the odds of winning or losing before I get in the game. I want to know how the movie ends before I watch it. But certainty doesn’t come and neither does forever. In the past 2 years, I’ve seen young people drop dead without warning. I’ve seen old people get to the end of their lives only to admit that they didn’t live it the way they wanted to. I’ve seen people scared to dream a new dream. Its dawning on me that life is not promised and time is not promised. It seems like, if I can do it, I must do it. If adventures seem difficult now, how hard will they be when I have a mortgage and a family.

But my grandmother is getting sick also…. Who know’s how long she has…. Its hard to plan for the future when there are so many variables out of your control…..