file this one under f.

for massive fail as well as fuckery deluxe.

no.

nkotb & new edition? i quit. just cuz they’re from boston and maurice starr managed them, it doesn’t mean this shit needed to happen. it’s painful. noooooooo, lawd, WHY?

man, you playin.

you go from flirting with me, openly, in front of everyone with eyes
to saying cutesy shit on the phone & telling me how bad you want some face time
then you express a desire to get another ‘good hug’ from me
& after all that
you write me off via a weakly played round of phone tag
. . .

& never call me back when i let you know that there exists a rain date?

this annoyance has been simmering. the disappointment, not even the what-ifs, has kept this shit going for me
not because i thought we were meant to be
but because i hoped i’d at least get to know you
you didn’t even give me a chance.

don’t let me catch your black ass in the street, dude
actually, let me
so i can remind myself how little i needed to be bothered with in the first place.

: : : : : :

just because i’m not present, it doesn’t mean i don’t care.
sorry you feel that way. it’s simply not true.

there is no fancy way to say it:

i’m tired of feeling like i’m fellating someone w/ really stinky balls for a living. that’s what my day job is like. i keep reminding myself of the goals & the deadline i gave myself — one i’m sticking to w/ no trouble — but damn, it’s hard to keep at it.

(i’ll finish my first post abt the new mayor as soon as i figure out how to make a meal out of frozen veggies, red bliss potatoes, veggie broth, & every seasoning in my cabinets… without washing the dishes first.)

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.

i am a towering fount of snot.

i have a cold. fuck. no date for me this weekend. not much more than changing the bed linen, taking lots of baths, & being pissed that i can’t go out & play with the other kids. meh.

i need the time to crochet, though…

we can only get so much from someone else

© amy winehouse, “help yourself”

basically.

just cuz i look like i have it together, it doesn’t mean i actually do have shit together. & if i do in fact have shit together, it doesn’t mean i wanna help you get yours together. sorry.

** the clarity edit:

. . . if i do in fact have shit together, it doesn’t mean i’m obligated to help you get yours together. it’s this simple: if i see where i’m needed, i’ll pitch in. but if you’re chillin hard without my input & don’t seem to have enough good sense to work at improvement of your situation, i’m staying right where i am. sorry.

i can’t call it.

she was like, “maybe there’s something he would like to say to you, since it seems you’ve got nothing to say to him.”

maybe. i mean, okay, i don’t think about or see you for months. then you pop up. like, through zero invitation/ effort of mine, i see you out in the street. i don’t waste my time speaking, because i don’t want to. i don’t wanna shoot you an email like “aaaaayooooooooo! i saw you. can we maybe try again to talk . . . this time w/ zero attitude or posturing?”
i might be she of the fucked up ‘tude for this, but i believe that once i give you a chance to converse w/ me & you turn it down you don’t deserve another chance. not unless i want to be bothered. when this happens, i don’t effin want to. & even months after that, i don’t wanna. i feel like it’s pointless & that it will rectify absolutely nothing for me. again, why consider you? that may be hella childish, but it’s my protection mechanism. it’s all i’ve got when i feel like someone’s kicked me in the shins one time too many. & at this point i don’t know if i wanna be a grownup about it. of course, it’s okay to say i do. & conversely, it’s fine to say that i don’t. but come the fuck on, dude; in the back of my mind the scenario plays out w/ you feeling like you’re the HNIC because i got at you first. i have issues that way; if we’re talking, we’re talking. it shouldn’t be about upper hands or one party standing in a position to control the other. i always felt like that was a big thing w/ you. maybe i was always wrong? this is what needs to be discussed. the mixed signals, the misunderstandings. let’s deconstruct these myths once & for all.
because i’ll be damned if i carry all this shit with me, on my shoulders, for the rest of my life.

this is a call to prayer, a call to action, a request for presence. i want to know that if i walk past you in the street, there’s no funky energy between us. hell, i wanna wish you peace & mean it. so let’s do that.

ashé.

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