Always Stay Gracious: Best Revenge is Your Paper

I know that Kimberly Foster is more educated than myself and has visibly good intentions with her content, but one thing that still irritates the shit out of me is her stating that when dark-skinned Black women have sisterhood and friendship with each other, they're fighting against hiearchies as opposed to light-skinned groups of women "probably upholding hierarchy." 

This implication is gross to me. Yes, I understand what she means. Yes, I understand there will be nuances between our lived experiences, especially with the steep gaps in our social, political, and educational comparisons. Respectfully, her take is still garbage in my opinion. This mindset is harmful because those of us that have dared to risk vulnerability with women in general, but especially women that differ greatly in appearance or aesthetic can attest to the bullying, malicious intent, abuse, and mental devastation it has caused us. 

I rarely meet women that are similar to me in body type, appearance, and compatibility. Even if by some miracle I do, the horrors I've faced by choosing people based off their charm, wit, intelligence, and other qualities I find endearing while ignoring their outer appearances, will likely cause me to withhold myself from them too. I am officially un-open to caring about anyone other than myself and my romantic partner. I am especially, however, cautious of woman-child, insecure, cut-throat women trying to win me over with half-assed performances of liking me. I want bitches to leave me alone, and there is no poetic way to say that. 

I am not bitter. I am not excluding people off the benefit of looking "cool" or being socially acceptable to strangers that don't give more of a damn about me than so-called "friends" or family did. I'm not even looking to make anyone regret their decisions to mistreat me. That would be giving away my power, and alas, I'm unwilling to spare any more. I'm sure everyone that's mishandled me has found their new scapegoat or became one themselves (deservingly so. fucking losers.). 

The irony about spending so much of my life having been insecure and hoping for others to see my worth is that they always did. When I step in a room, I disrupt the flow. People react to me in the strongest ways they can. They have tried relentlessly to undermine my confidence, self-image, accomplishments, and happiness. That behavior is unforgivable and if avoiding a bitch with a wider back than me or darker/lighter skin or even smaller boobs keeps me safe, I'm not fucking sorry for that. None of them were sorry for traumatizing me, so I'm not about to be sorry I don't grant them access to ruin my life. 

After all, that's clearly the goal. What other intention does someone have to try and intimidate you with their size? Or emotionally manipulate you? Or have a clear dislike for you yet are unable to leave you the hell alone? Let it be known that bitches hate more than just my appearance. 

Drunk Blog Post #1

I'm wine-drunk in the kitchen with my boyfriend and his mom. I love these people. I love hearing their stories. When I was a sad little girl not even too, too long ago, I never dreamed I'd have a family of my own that loves me. The only one absent is Onyx, who is sound asleep in the bedroom closet. We're waiting for pizza. The CSR of Domino's knew we were all drunk over the phone. This nigga asked if we want cheese when I said "Only ham and pepperoni on the pizza." My boyfriend and his mom laughed loud as hell in the background, so I said we were all drunk to make this nigga feel better. We are, though. I'm hearing stories about Mr. John's (My boyfriend's dad) friend Floyd. I'm texting an old coworker from this shitty sales job I only stayed at for like a month. It's nice to be alive. I hope that after quarantine me and Nadia, me and Drew, me and all the people I love will link again.

I'm legit in awe of how happy my life is in comparison to how miserable it used to be. I can't say it's completely unexpected. I'm working on a book that needs to exist soon. I love you. I love myself. I hope that all of you in need of healing find it or that it finds you. Please, please know I love you if you love me. It's simple. It's all so simple. Goodnight, y'all. 10:52 and signing off.

Also I miss the strip club. A lot more than I ever realized. 

Pole to Pulitzer

“I'm writing this from one of the La Quinta Inns in New Orleans. My thighs have pole bruises from today's audition.”

I was supposed to do this entry months ago, and that was the opener. December was a weird time. I abruptly quit Walmart after a month of research and decided that if I’m going to be this young, this toned, and this beautiful I’m going to take advantage and start dancing.

It had some ups and downs, but once I finally found a club worth working at, I slowly began digging myself out of the financial hole that had ensued from us struggling for a few months trying to get accustomed to living on our own and together.

I’ve never had money. My dad used to buy my shoes about a couple sizes too big so that I could wear them for years on end. My mom scrounged every penny to send me to arts school to grow up and be some great writer.

I have grown up, and I’m a great writer because I’m an honest one. COVID-19 has been a blessing and a curse. Ms. Rona gave me a break from niggas squeezing my thighs and has given me ample creative opportunity. I’ve been painting and flowing and detangling my hair without being on a time crunch.

I’ve rekindled friendships I presumed dead, I’ve revamped my blog AGAIN, and in the face of this crisis, I’ve decided to be consistent with my blog once more. My publications in journals matter to me a lot, but there’s no reason I can’t do both. My professional writing does not have to suffocate my personal writing, and I will no longer let one take precedence over the other.

I used to think perhaps I have some self-inflated ego because I believe in my capabilities. That isn’t true. It’s the only way to survive. Dancing taught me that. When I was younger and friendless (Okay, okay not friendless but my friends were phony and I never saw them outside of school. Same thing), I submerged myself in music. I used to choreograph shit in my head for hours on end. I’m not a Black Swan. I’m Mercedes: the rose that grew from concrete. The 5” woman that becomes 5’5 with those platforms on. Spinning on that pole is invigorating even if it is temporary.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss work. Telling a tall tale. I love my work and before touching became illegal, my work loved me back.

Now, though, it’s on pause. Pausing one thing isn’t that bad when you’re resuming another. Yes, I’m broke, but I’m broke due to a GLOBAL crisis; I wouldn’t dare take that personally.  In this time, I’ve also made note of who’s truly there for me and who I’m truly there for. All this shall pass. By the end of it, maybe my essay collection will be complete. (Hint, hint, hint)

Also, I forgot to mention I’ve finally reached a place of inner peace. I did that prior to COVID getting out of hand, but now its capacity is stretching. I can do whatever I want. I *do* whatever I want. So welcome to Biggity Babe’s Blog. Welcome to my awakening.