fronting: an undoing.

peeling off, peeling out, laying the dumb shit to the side.
seeing myself, wholly, in bright light
not allowing myself to be lost in the crevices between what he says, what she says
slipping through cracks that seem more like caverns
i am no longer willing to be held hostage by image or ego, whether mine or someone else’s
coming undone has never been so dope, and i love how it feels
i have started to embrace la loba within.
and for the first time, in a long time, i don’t feel the overwhelming urge to tattoo or pierce, to cut my hair or get my eyebrows waxed.
i’m fine how i am, where i am
because i’m meant to just do what i do
there’s nothing to stop me
no one to slow me down

the only one in the way of this is me. and i’ve decided to move on over.

i did it because it felt good.

i ate that whole container of hummus
devoured that bottle of cheap ass white wine
walked around my apartment in just a pair of heels — by myself
watched some porn
flirted endlessly with no desire to take it further
bought that pair of lace panties
cut all my hair off
slathered myself in coconut oil
stayed in bed an extra three hours
packed a bowl & smoked myself silly
enjoyed a sandwich with two kinds of meat and a cheese on it
wore a skirt w/ no panties underneath
copped a pair of sexy shoes for no apparent reason
fucked around w/ your homeboy
got some extensions put in my head
drank a whole pitcher of lager & three shots
danced w/ a girl
gave out a fake name @ the club
went bonkers on the clearance rack
got my nails done
kissed a baby
smiled at strangers & said ‘good morning’
started a blog
spent 30 minutes in the dressing room & didn’t buy shit
ignored that phone call
had a glass of wine w/ lunch on a monday
wore jewelry that didn’t match my outfit
left work early to go on a weekend trip
pretended to be younger than i am
lied & said i was older
downloaded an album
wore some crazy looking outfit
called someone a dirty name
got nasty on the mic
played dumb
snickered when someone got fired
called out sick just so i could have sex all day . . .

i don’t feel like delving today.

that is, i’m cleaning out my closets literally but the figurative act of doing so is way too much to handle at the moment. there are things churning around in my head about becoming a doula, becoming a massage therapist, & about this evolution i’m experiencing overall. i am a crafter, a day jobber, a writer . . . all these things that seem to be vying for dominance in my life. i mean, the logic says that i’d be without a place to be all this “other stuff” without having a pain in the ass day job, right? but i could not possibly look fwd to leaving work each day if i didn’t come home to my creatively-infused home, right? so much. so many things. i’ve got to be immediately occupied w/ working, crafting, healing (my tattoo is healing funny, but from what i surmise it’s an issue of its locale on my body & not shoddy work by jason, but more on that later), loving, laughing, building & a bunch of other -ings before i can even think about becoming the fabulously & fully self-employed self i want to be 1 year from now. there’s a lot. i don’t know if i can say i feel overwhelmed, or simply unaware of where/ how to begin.
thankfully, though, i’m being held up by folks who feel inclined on a consistent basis to contribute in a positive way
i’m learning to juggle (& eventually balance) it all
loosing myself of things/ persons unnecessary
finding out exactly what it is to actualize potential in the face of what can only be described as the “no-you-can’t” mass choir & its accompaniment, the faithful “i’ve-never-heard-of-that-so-it-must-not-be-valid” chorale. fuck ’em both; i’ve got work to do.
i’m letting go of the idea that i’ve got to get everything done all at once just because i think of everything all at once. this is not freaking easy. at all.
i’m learning process
practicing patience
trying my damnedest not to just up & quit the things i hate, though they get harder on the daily
i still feel like i’m waiting for my turn to jump into something. maybe a chute or giant water slide that leads to something with which i’m entirely unfamiliar. i’m less angsty about it, though.

i just wanna be fully ready to get this show on the fucking road.

mixed feelings about the path i’m on.

(originally titled: “i’m not about to play mammy to anyone”)

the other day, i got my membership packet from DONA international in the mail. i thumbed through the two newsletters & introductory info packet. i just sighed & thought, “i paid XX dollars to join an organization that won’t recommend you unless you get w/ their program, & these fuckers don’t even give me a membership card? blah.”
then i looked at the newsletters more closely. i saw maybe one photo of a black woman & baby. i sighed, swallowed hard & heard that lovely little voice inside my head going all crazy: “wtf? you know there are black doulas, & there are black women who utilize the services of doulas . . . this shit’s gotta change. get your training ASAP. read those books, find out if jackie from family birth mark is gonna be doing any classes in late spring to early summer. read some books. get comcast to come install cable, so you can research your ass off. & get ready to deal w/ those white folks, especially those who don’t think of you as ‘really’ black; & don’t forget the skeptical black folks who think you’re on some new age erykah badu earth mother bullshit . . .”

i’ve since calmed down. i thought about some things, had some talks (thx karas & mommy & trace), & came to the conclusion that i must simply place one foot before the other. i will be certified as a birth & postpartum doula. i will seek clients who are under or unrepresented within the realm of home birth & anything labeled “alternative” child birth. i will pick the brains of everyone who works across the hall from me so we can get the data that confirms my suspicions about why doulas didn’t work in the public health centers (um, hello gov’t mistrust & mistrust of white folks). i’m flipping through doula blogs to view the profession from women who’re not writing newsletters, but chronicling their lives & work. i’m gonna explore the connections that i can make w/ black midwives & doulas between philadelphia, nyc & the dc area. i will not allow myself to use my clients as platforms for my agenda, but i will not hesitate to remind myself why i am doing what i do. i will commit myself to providing the best possible service, & remember that it’s about what the client wants/ needs. (that’s gonna be hard cuz i’m one bossy motherfucker. maybe i ought to become a midwife instead? lol)

i’m gonna be dealing w/ the privileged. i know that. whether i connect with clients on a deeply personal level or not (i don’t know how i wouldn’t when i’m intending to be present at the birth of their child, for crying out loud), i have to remember i’m there to do a job. i can’t present everyone with my ideas on how to really have a birthing revolution. i should also refrain from anticipating that when i have a black client, i’ll automatically have some magical “yay i’m glad you’re black; let’s have a revolution” sort of thing going on. it would be cute if that could happen, but i’m not about to presume that it will.

i’m just trying to be as realistic w/ myself as possible. it won’t be all drama, of course. i want to lend strength, bolster confidence, & create comforts for my clients. i want to use my knowledge of aromatherapy & such to help them. i want to become a licensed massage therapist & combine all of my skills & training to assist my clients in having the most blissful pregnancies & births possible. & i mean that.

there’s so much i want to do. i’m praying that i can get it all done without compromising my integrity.