My Memoir

Hello.

               

     Twenty years ago in about five months, you were born. Twenty years and nine months if you count the period you were a guest in her womb. When they loved each other enough to make love, you’re not sure if the goal was a child, or just the pleasure of being intimate, being in love and wanting the whole building, the whole city, the whole world to know that love blossomed from each of their bodies and into one another. Months passed quietly, love and work, both activities consumed them entirely. A forgettable day became memorable. She was pregnant. 4 months.

                

Love was made recklessly and in the process life was created. But two lives were already in full progress. Climbing up the corporate ladder, consumed with better, desiring for more. Desire rejected the new life, it would be a hindrance, a roadblock to what those two lives in full progress were destined to achieve.

               

But in the midst of love they decided to love the life now living in her body. Timing was wrong, plans were obliterated, but desire still abided in both lives. They worked harder, became less invested in each other and more invested in a future that needed to be created for the life that was already changing their lives and their love.

                

You were born. It was a blizzard. Just the two lives, nervously starring at the new one. The freezing precip fell from the sky, a cold chill ran up their spines, the love that seemingly had inferno strength left them freezing.

                

The city was left for suburbia. Culture for cookie cutter. But hey, who said the American dream incorporated culture? Love was left in that small studio apartment, where love made a life that changed two. You worry they resent you.

               

Months passed, the new life grew. You walked and talked, you said dad first, then mom. And then they left. Desire never left either of them, while love slowly did. They went back to work, started where they had left off. A nanny became your parents. She was nice though, lovely woman. She loved the live the two had created, the life they left to continue their own. The two lives would quietly stop in your room, as if they were visiting you in their own home. They loved you, they really did.

One Christmas after another, they weren't there. The two lives off pursuing goals, attaining some America dream, which was a fucking joke. Your dream was sitting in front of a massive pine covered tree opening presents with a fucking nanny. Love never filled that house the way it did the small studio apartment where they carelessly made love and life.

              

 Facades became a daily ritual for the two lives that no longer loved each other. Oddly enough they cared enough about the life they made to stay together, try and stick it out or whatever. You grew up, went to school, and made friends. Lived the typical American life, you were beginning to blossom while the two lives had been slowly rotting.

               

The nanny left, the new life wasn't so new anymore. The house got cold, almost like the blizzard you had been born on. It’s not that love wasn't there, but love for each other was gone. The two lives no longer loved each other just the one they created. How could you not love the person you made life with?

Divorce. They had rotted into corpses of who they had been in that studio apartment ten years prior. You didn't cry, you expected it. You lived, held your feels deep in the crevices of your heart and lived. Because although this is an autobiography they are your life, they gave you life and they took life from you. The emotional pain killed inside, you never think your family will be the one to explode. But you lived, made it through middle school then high school.  

That was life. They offered objects instead of affection. You love them but you hate them. They should have tried harder, did better. Now you look for love in every fucking person because you didn't experience enough at home. Because the two people who had once loved each other so much couldn't even show you, their kid what the fuck love was.

You’re in college now.  A pretty cool kid; you have no idea what you want to be. But you know you want to contribute; you can contribute to society, to the world, to art? Who knows what institution you’ll truly make your mark on. You love your parents, you know they want the best for you, and just like how you’re trying to navigate through the highs and lows of young adulthood, they did the same trying to figure out how to raise you. In no way is this autobiography a massacre of them, of those two lives because they were and are human, they’re growing. We’re actually growing together. I love you. 

Feminism: Black Feminism?

I’m Feminist and I’m black.

It recently was revealed to me in reading a race and feminist related article that black feminism is an actual sub-genre in the world of feminism and in the blogosphere in general. Prior to me starting this blog I had never really come across the title and/or belief system, and in all my posts I never really felt the injection of race was ever necessary; I wrote/write about experiences and opinions I felt/feel equally played out for women in general, not particular sects or races. And with some research and reading of some proclaimed black feminist I can understand  the distinction of black feminism, I realize the differences that they’re arguing, but I guess I never really faced those issues hence why I never did or really could discuss them. I see their premise being the struggles faced by black women in some way or another overshadow and are more intense than that of their white counterparts but that in general is a very perspective and person specific baseline. And yes in certain cases you do have disparaging differences between races as far as economic, social and familial structure go, thus creating new struggles, which is an inevitable truth. Furthermore the wealth gap between blacks and whites has nearly tripled in the last quarter century, in favor of whites and wealth usually being the determining factor for all other factions of lifestyle like education for example does create an issue. That being said I do understand that maybe in more than just a few cases; in a lot of cases black women face different or perhaps a bit more strenuous situations. Now this is not to say you can’t find poverty stricken families of other races and that other families aren't struggling to make ends meet; and that’s what I want to make clear, the censuses only go so far; those stats aren't all inclusive of every families struggle, those charts don’t incorporate everyone’s situation,  whether they’re black or white.

As it goes for myself I don’t see my life struggle any harder than I would of a white, 18 year female with the same socioeconomic upbringing and family structure as I have. I live in an upper middle class town, an hour from NYC, and more than half of my town’s demographic is white. And I think that inherently  puts me at odds of truly understanding and empathizing not sympathizing with black feminist. Frankly when I first heard the terminology I thought, “Well here’s another example of race further dividing a people rather than unifying over the simple desire of gender equality.”

And then it occurred that being black do I know fall under the label of: black feminist? Am I supposed to pick up arms and take on this new sub-culture’s battle cry? And I mean I genuinely think I can’t, I simply have no understanding or ties to this particular genre of women. Yes, my complexion is dark but I don’t know what it’s like to struggle in the black community because I never lived there, I wasn't raised or reared there. Class oppression, economic and educational disenfranchisement, finding yourself unattractive or less than because of your dark pigment…those issues aren't my issues and I’m not saying that I don’t care and that I don’t want to help alter these situations for the better, but it’s very difficult for me to completely understand them not going through the experience. I do want the option of decent education offered to every person: black, white, Hispanics, Asian, or otherwise and I do want to change impoverished and crime ridden communities and neighborhoods, these are all things I desire but I’d be lying if I said they were on the forefront of my mind. And it’s not even that I can’t relate to the community and the issues as much as I don’t think I should try and act like I've lived there and that I know that lifestyle. Because in large sense doing that, acting like I've been there and I know the pain and the difficulties, almost trivialize the point(s) and the situation(s) that black feminist  deem as major issues for black women.  They’re certain things taken away from experiences, that are only gotten via the actually experience, some stories can be told but others have to be lived and I realized that just because I’m black doesn't automatically enter me into the black feminist organization.

I want female equality for all females whether black or white.

Straight or gay.

Rich or poor.

Literate or illiterate.

Whether you have a degree or not you know as a person the treatment you deserve and the respect you desire. For me I’m not going to bring race into this blog if I don’t have too, it’s simply a paradox box of political and racial debates that are too hot for my kitchen(lol). And I am of course willing to bring publicity and notoriety to causes that need it, and if they so happen to be geared towards a certain race or ethnicity then so be it, if we’re going to come together as a gender and achieve equality it would be remiss to leave women behind.

In writing this post and taking time to grasp the ideologies of black feminism I understand and acknowledge its existence but I think it’ll take me a bit longer to truly respect its value and appreciate what it’s doing for feminism as a whole, if anything. And I question how much it actually offers to the average black woman, who probably has no knowledge of black feminism, and what it claims to provide, so it’s a very slippery slope.

As always these are personal opinions of my own and are in no way written to defame, disrespect, or trivialize any persons or institutes that might have been acknowledge within the post.

Mistakes

Your growth in life is dictated by your ability to reflect, and your ability to cohesively take the most pertinent information and lessons from your past without getting stuck there. Lessons are derived from mistakes, these inevitable experiences that make life, lived.

I haven’t taken much time to respect my blog with all the holidays and finals that have plagued life currently, but I was still thinking about what I wanted to write, if anything. What would I want to explore after my mini hiatus. And it came to me in a lecture after receiving an exam and looking at a few mistakes I had made, that this post, this entrance back into my blogging life would begin with mistakes. The making, the fallout, and the learning received from mistakes. I've been on this earth for nearly twenty years now and mistakes and subsequent lessons have afflicted them. But I don’t use the word afflicted to express a disdain to the experience, mistakes are necessary life experiences that are constantly deemed as bad when there purpose is to enlighten one’s life. It’s a perspective specific understanding, and for pessimistic people perhaps they want to believe that mistakes are always bad; but that’s just not true.

Sitting there mistake began to take on this magnanimous definition as I started to think about it in a larger, deeper context. Mistakes I made as a kid, as a human, as a girl, that I’m currently making; it was overwhelming but the thought that consumed me the most was how I didn't want those mistakes that I made for my future daughter(s), for my future children in general (this post being within my feminist blog, is why it’s geared towards girls; not to exclude any guys), for any girls that gets the opportunity to read this post, or meet me. Blood or not I didn't want to think that the cringing sensation I felt sitting in that lecture hall as I relieved my most foolish mistakes would be lived by some unknowing girl.  I’m tired of stepping on my fellow wo[man] when there down, I feel as though were almost taught in the subject of belittling one another and tearing them down.

I’m done.

Learn from my mistakes instead of being stupid enough to make the same ones. You know that feeling when you’re thinking about something and it just triggers a memory; and it’s not living in regret it’s just a trigger to your past and it’s like relieving this embarrassing, debilitating experience that I can’t understand why I did it, frankly I didn't know who I was, which was largely why I did it. Looking for attention from people who had their own ulterior motives, desperate to fit into a crowd that society should have never put on a pedestal. Sometimes I even emit the strongest of feelings; hate. Hate towards myself more than anything, and I hate that too. I’m trying to pay it forward rather than be on standby and watch someone else make that mistake. And I realize that some mistakes are necessary and destined to be made but that’s not a true all.

I wasn't always a feminist, but I was always human. I write this post specifically appealing to the female youths that will come behind me. It’s never too early to be the example, but sometimes it can be too late. I write often about pride and self-worth, particularly in young women but it’s an acquired knowledge. No one comes out the gate with this full understanding of: who they are, what they are, and the abilities they harbor. It’s an anomaly. It’s a growing process that through the making of mistakes and through the growing as a person you will eventually realize who you are as a person. And I want to make that clear, it’s not an overnight process, it’s an evolutionary one.  

You’ll be ever evolving as a person but knowing your core principals and beliefs is what sustains who you are as a person; and your ability to evolve is based on what you take from your experiences; from your mistakes. If you take all the bad, all the negative from your mistakes rather than trying to find the lesson, then you’ll never go anywhere, you will never evolve. But if you take a minute to look at the situation from every angle rather than the most negative, jaded position you’ll realize that there’s more to a mistake then the error made but that there’s actually some valuable aspects you can take from it. Think of it as thrift shopping; a lot of times it’s a huge

 mass of clothing, and you have to sort through the racks and piles to find those gems, that perfect flannel shirt, or throwback Hammer time pants… and just leave the rest. I  

lol from Hammer to Harem

 can’t say I've enjoyed making mistakes, or at least I haven’t enjoyed most of them, but they were worth it to get to the best Imani I can be and now I’m going to hold the door open, open for our future.

One of my favorite Fiona Apple songs...her view on mistakes, which I enjoy...sort of Amy Winehouse-esq

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pokyLl-633o