FIRST- Future Investment in Social Technology

Hello 2012!!!!

2012-01-01T02:49:00.002+02:00

In less than a five hours 2011 will be over and 2012 will be here! A big year for many, many reasons. 2011 was the year that I sowed many seeds. I worked diligently, watering them everyday. I sought the right elements to help me nurture them: Great friends. A good mentor. A wonderful support team. My partner. In the last half of the year the seeds started to sprout, rising above the soil toward light. 2012 will be the year when I see them burgeon into dreams.

It's time. It's about to happen. I'm standing on the edge of glory and as the ball drops tonight, I'll be an effervescent firework, ready to light up the world!

Nicole

To Althea, my classmate at St. Andrew High who made me realize something wonderful...

2011-11-28T19:41:00.026+02:00

My yearbook pic, Circa 1998

This Thanksgiving I was in a reflective mood. Of course the day says it all “Thanksgiving”. I’ve always been thankful, but for some reason this Thanksgiving took me on an interesting journey. I journeyed along paths that I hadn’t been on in years. Paths that made me realize now how blessed I am. Paths that had faded with life, concealed, colored sepia like old pictures.

It was the image of my high school’s Annual Award Ceremony that stuck with me. Images that were snapped over a decade ago. I was twelve, then thirteen, then fourteen, then fifteen, then sixteen. Five years of images. All superimposed. Prizes and certificates were given to the brightest and most talented students. Although this was Jamaica, I still knew then that it was America’s Thanksgiving Day because I sought escape in cable television. I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade religiously every year as I ironed my school uniform. The Award Ceremony started at 2pm. I would get there early to line up with my class. All the girls giddy with excitement as if we were preparing for the Academy Awards and were nominated.

Dressed in my pressed uniform, my hair neatly combed, every strand in place, I would watch girls in my class and from different grades go up to take their prizes on stage. The prizes were Best Student, Most Improved, Service, Excellence, etc. None of which I was ever awarded. The girls who were awarded these prizes got to shake the principal’s hand and stood in place to have their pictures snapped. Their shoulder length hair bouncing, loose ironed curls cascading. I watched them happily bounce back to their assigned seating, certificate in hand, smiles on their faces. Their necks acquired a certain tilt, bending their heads backwards, noses up in the air. They were destined for college, destined for top scores on the CXC’s, the A-Levels. They were even destined for the coveted opportunity to take the American exam, the SAT’s where they could apply for colleges like Swarthmore, Wesleyan, Vassar, Middlebury.

"Only girls like that get to go somewhere," said Althea, a fellow average student who sat with me in the back. "We'll never be on their level, so get used to this," she said to me. She kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes. Her words were like a slap in the face. Tears stung my eyes when she said it in response to me telling her that I would love to receive a prize the following year. I had never felt so infuriated, so resentful, so angry, so defeated. Althea must have felt the same.

Of course, I sat at this Award Ceremony every year wondering if I would ever be nominated for a prize. How did the teachers choose the nominees? Year after year I would study hard and do well on exams, yet I never got nominated. Never got a chance to shake the principal’s hand. Never had my picture snapped. Yet, I always showed up. Always had my hair in place, uniform ironed, shoes polished as if I were nominated. It was mandatory that average students show up. It was mandatory that we pretend to show our support by being on our best behavior. It was mandatory that we have smiles pasted to our faces and applause handy for when a lucky classmate, always the same set of girls, gets her award. Maybe Althea was right after all. In the back of my mind I wondered if this was how life would be. Smiles and applause meant for others.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade floated on one year and I was late for the Award Ceremony. By then I had come to the conclusion that I’d never mount to excellence in my school, in my home country for that matter. I’d always be considered average or not good enough. Like Althea I would begin to give up. Begin to accept my fate as a "dunce darky". The British system kicked my ass and my self-esteem to a pulp. I couldn’t even look in the mirror without feeling ugly, because I wasn’t light enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my parents were working class, I wasn’t smart enough. Just average. So I was late on purpose. Got my first detention because of it. But I didn’t care. At least I got to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade in its entirety. America inspired me.

The day came when I decided not to show up to the Award Ceremony altogether. I was sixteen and fed up. Tired of seeing certain girls get prizes. Tired of being a good sport about it, because deep down something told me I’m great and just as worthy. To this day I can’t tell you where that voice came from, but it incited me to march to my mother and give her an ultimatum. Did I say I was only sixteen? “I will never make it if I stay in this damn country,” I said to her. She looked at me for what seemed like an eternity. I used the word “damn”. She hated when we swear. Yet, it was something else that silenced her. Something else that she saw rising within me. My growing frustration. “OK,” she said very slowly. “I’ll call your father.”

The next day I was called into my mother’s room. I learned that I would never be subjected to another Award Ceremony. I learned that day that I would be migrating to America in the summer to live with my father and start college. I learned that day that my mother had thought long and hard about this. I would finally get a chance to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in real life.

My freshman year of college I reveled in the opportunity of living in a country that doesn’t see me as “average”. My first semester in college I got straight A’s. My second semester I won an academic scholarship. My second year I made the Dean’s List. Four times. Little ‘ole me. The one who never once got nominated in high school for a piece of paper or a handshake that promised to validate my excellence. I was having a ball in college. In college I learned I’m a brilliant writer. Something that I was discouraged from in high school after an English teacher read my college essay and said it was crap. Said the Queen wouldn't be happy with such colloquial terms. Fuck the Queen, I thought. Uhm…excuse me miss, but I got into Cornell University with that letter. Thank you very much.

At my Cornell graduation my mother flew up from Jamaica. She had a certificate in hand. “What’s this?” I asked her. “I forgot to give this to you.” She presented it to me in a large brown envelop. I opened it and read the certificate out loud. “St. Andrew High School for Girls, class 6R, student nominated for academic excellence and service.” I couldn’t believe what I was reading. The certificate was issued a few months after I migrated in June, 1999. My graduation from college was in 2003. Four years had past. Had I gotten it years before when I was in high school, I would’ve probably not felt I needed to migrate to America to be validated. To have my gifts be recognized. But I did. And I’m glad I did. I didn't get a certificate then, yet I pushed forward. I achieved what I set out to achieve because deep down I knew I could. I learned in the process that no one or nothing can make me feel worthy but me. I may not have been nominated for excellence in high school, or felt I couldn't accomplish anything; but God worked it out that today, at this very moment, I am blessed. And have accomplished a lot. So far. For this I give thanks.

If Althea could see me now. I would give her a hug. I would say to her girl, thank you. "Only girls like that get to go somewhere," Althea had said to me then. But I would let her know now that she is worthy to succeed. That she has always been that girl. Worthy.Me today, Circa November 24, 2011

Nicole

Status Writers vs. Contract Writers...What's the use of these terms when all I wanna do is write?

2011-11-02T21:38:00.007+02:00

"What good do your words do, if they can't understand you?" Erykah Badu

I was ruminating on this thought as I write. I just read an essay by Jonathon Franzen who was adamant about making a differentiation between a "contract writer" and a "status writer". A "status writer", he says, is a person who writes with no intention of being understood by a certain group of readers; a person who seeks to build his/her reputation among the elites by indulging in literary masturbation and leaving readers behind in the dust. While a "contract writer" on the other hand is a writer who is invested in engaging the reader; someone who is passionate about reaching at least one soul because they have something to say.

But the implicit question here is, who gets published? Who determines what's art? Who are the people who decide? Is it the masses or the suits behind sliding glass doors overlooking fifth avenue and Central Park? Is it Granta or your local newspaper? Is it the New Yorker or The Mississippi Review? Is it your mother or the head of Random House? Is it the women in your church or the men with thick glasses who shop at vintage stores, read the New Yorker, and ride their bikes across the Williamsburg bridge? Clearly, if you can reach both the church women and the academic liberals, then that means you're a good writer who should not be labeled or put inside a box. As a writer, you also have to know who your audience is. For example, whenever I turn on my computer to write, I picture that brown lesbian girl in Jamaica or here in Brooklyn who I'd want to read my book, a version of myself that never had the opportunity to read work by lesbian authors of color about lesbians of color, which had nothing to do with threesomes, sex, and more sex. I'd also like the homophobic Christian to pick my book up and identify with some of the emotions and turmoils queer individuals go through. That we're not about parades with half-naked people running around in the streets, but human beings with souls.

In my opinion, art isn't art if it doesn't touch the souls of individuals. There must be something humanistic about our art/writing that speaks to the reader, whether he dresses in a suit everyday or jeans and t-shirt. It doesn't matter. Also, I don't believe that one should put themselves in either categories of status versus contract, because in my opinion we have the ability to merge the two. For example, Toni Morrison is a writer who appeals to the elites and the masses. How does she do that? Well, she writes from the heart. She writes from a place within that pulls from her experiences with people and with herself.

As people, we're complex beings. So complex that not even our mothers who have known us since birth can label us if they should try. Because as individuals, we're still learning about ourselves, all the different elements, shades, that make us unique. So it is with this understanding, I believe, that a writer who is successful in touching the hearts and souls of readers draw from. As readers you're allowed to become voyeurs into the lives of these strange individuals who are not so strange when you begin to see yourself, people you may know, or think you know. So, back to the initial argument: "Contract" versus "Status" writer isn't a valid judgment for Jonathon Franzen to make given that at any given point people can be who they want to be, depending on the height of their career, the pressure to live up to labels, the need for affirmation, the lust for fame.

But the person (writer) who is most affected by all this smoke is the person (writer) who is forgetting one important thing: The readers.

As my favorite artist of all time, the great Erykah Badu says: "What good do your words do, if they can't understand you?" And I shall add, what good do your words do, if people can't understand you and IDENTIFY?

Nicole © 2011

Hey World!

2011-10-12T18:13:00.007+02:00

Wow...I haven't been on here for a while! So much has been happening that by the time I actually get to sit down to write, I'm busy crunking out my novel and not a blog. I told you at the beginning of 2011 that this is the year that I'll be planting seeds. And I shall proudly announce that those seeds are beginning to germinate. I see signs of life sprouting from them, reaching toward an eternal sunshine. I'm loving what I do and living life blissfully surrounded by wonderful and supportive friends and family and partner.

Things are beginning to pick up. I got a lovely writing mentor in the bag. A gift from God. An angel. I got my work cut out for me. Networking like crazy. Writing like crazy. And like Jean-Michel Basquiat, I come up for air only to hang with the people most dear to me, have a drink with them, break bread, dance, pick apples. Then go back to my hole to write some more. For my 30th birthday....yes, I turned 30!!!...my partner surprised me with a literary themed celebration. A surprise birthday party followed where all my lovey-doves came out to wish me well. I was Zora Neale Hurston for my birthday month. And I felt her spirit every step of the way as I toasted to a new chapter. We stayed at the Harlem Renaissance House and had Harlem nights out. Talk about a sign!

Did I mention I'm also planning a "big event" next year? *wink* Yes...and the wheel keeps turning. But I'm balancing real well. It's super exciting. 2012 will be a big year. Gigantic. So gigantic that on New Years Eve I'm planning to wear a tutu and a pair of ballet shoes at the party, set to take a leap into the new year. I'll be the one twirling on the dance floor. Giving thanks.

In the meantime I'm enjoying myself. I tell anyone who asks how I'm doing that I'm "wrIting hard". And I mean every word of it. In the past when I used to say "working hard" it was only to make conversation. To shrug a perfunctory question off with a perfunctory answer. But "Writing hard" as opposed to "working hard" means that I'm enjoying every bit of the process. I feel more connected to myself, my characters and others. Like James Baldwin who's friends used to ask him how his characters are doing since he thought of them so often, my close friends are beginning to ask me how my characters doing, because they know that's all I think about. I sip my cup of coffee and open the morning paper and my partner ruefully asks "So, how's E today?" I meet my friend for brunch and she wants to know what another character is up to. I love it! I'm existing boldly as a "coooky", quirky writer with all these characters inside my head who my loved ones know about.

NEEEE-WAY...(in Ellen Degenerous' voice)...I may not be good with the blogging thing while I'm working. But I'll drop by to wave hello every now and again. So many issues to discuss...Like Occupying Wall Street! Fight the power!

Until then, see you soon!

Best,

Nicole

Writing and magic (Hurston/Wright Writers Workshop)

2011-07-19T05:53:00.015+02:00

Whenever I tried to write about my past couple days at Hurston/Wright Writers Workshop, I would put down my pen and reflect some more. The words wouldn’t come, at least not yet. It was so sacred, those moments of truth when my soul opened up to embrace my characters, embrace the reality of my immediate transformation as a writer. I was reminded last week that I’m a writer who’s supposed to see the world for what it is and beyond, including the people I write about.

Not often do they come to me naked and raw while staring at a reflection of myself in a mirror, wondering, marveling. Vulnerable and ashamed, I sometimes look away, delete them from my presence with the click of my mouse or a line drawn with my pen; cloak them with unnecessary adjectives. “They were there all along, you were just too afraid of them”, Marita Golden, my Hurston/Wright instructor, and acclaimed author of Don't Play in the Sun, After, and The Word-Black Writers Talk About The Transformative Power of Reading And Writing, said in one of her critiques. She challenged me to dig deeper, getting my fingers dirtied with the soil under which memories, emotions, and experiences are buried, some of them still alive and well. Like severed tails of lizards they dance about with their own lives independent of the dead carcass of doubt from which they came.

“Tell me your story, grandma,” I remembered asking as a little girl, fascinated by my grandmother’s tall tales about rolling calves and duppy in the country. This was before I realized that the universe conspires in mysterious ways to have me re-tell those same stories my ancestors told. My stories may not be about rolling calves and duppies, but about the secrets that lurk behind the darkest shadows of my ancestors’ pasts, secrets too restless to be laid to rest in coffins, secrets that wait till moonlight to run free among the cane fields and float above the river, secrets that some may call myal while others call relentless truths. This explains why many of the women in the workshop had eerily resonating themes as if we were there answering to the call of congo drums at a ritual where we are bequeathed our stories, bowing our heads to accept our crowns as griots. "Write from your heart, not your head until it’s time to edit," Marita said.

Writing from the heart. What exactly does that mean? Marita Golden was able to break it down in workshop, pulling apart intricate metaphors, beautiful language and ambitious plots with discerning tweezers to find depth in a character. What is this character’s biggest secret? What’s his/her motivation to do such a thing? What was his/her journey? In other words, are we listening to our characters or are we forcing them onto the page, crowding them with our own desires and expectations, fearing that our readers may make assumptions about us? A character is what makes the plot. Most workshops I’ve been in have focused on plot, but convincing the reader to care deeply about a character is magic within itself—--kind of like a spirit that has never been seen but is felt.

Thanks to Marita Golden and the supportive workshop in which my work was carefully critiqued, I was able to walk away feeling inspired after rigorously re-working my story, developing characters, and most importantly finding the courage to attack the page without fear. I walked away with a novel and a community of writers of color, extremely talented women warriors with great stories to tell. God must have answered my prayers when I had written in a previous blog how much I need a mentor and a strong community of writing pals, for I was granted this favor and much more.

The Furious Flowers serenade Marita Golden on our last day. Hurston/Wright Writers Workshop 2011, Howard University.

Nicole

Writer looking to interview MTF transgendered woman

2011-07-18T19:38:00.006+02:00

Are you a MTF transgendered woman who is in the transition phase or has already transitioned? Are you of African, Caribbean or Hispanic decent? Do you live or work in the NYC area? If you answered yes to these questions I want to talk to you!

I’m a Writer who’s currently working on a novel dealing with transgendered issues.

I would like to speak to you about your journey, challenges, cultural stigma, and above them all, the courage to move forward with the transition despite these barriers.

Confidentiality is top priority. Please note that this story will not be about you. So you don’t have to worry about your identity.

If you’re interested in speaking to me, please email me at transproject1@gmail.com. Participants will be acknowledged in my novel, and drinks/coffee will be on me along with a $10 Starbucks gift card!

Thanks a lot!

Nicole

This is the day the Lord has made....

2011-06-29T13:34:00.002+02:00

Do you remember where you were in 1990 when Mandela was released from prison in South Africa? Do you remember where you were when Obama won the 2008 presidential election—the first Black man ever to become US president? Do you remember where you were when the New York State senate passed same-sex marriage?

On Friday June 24th, 2011 at approximately 10:25pm, the unexpected happened. I remembered exactly where I was and what I was doing when New York State senate passed same-sex marriage. I was on my couch with my partner turning up the tv volume above the whirring fan that worked to keep us cool in the smothering heat in our apartment. We were writing up invitations cards for our wedding. Of course, we had already set a date two months ago with the intention of getting married in Washington DC. We had already begun making preparations for the big day, hiring a wedding planner, dress shopping, selecting our bridal party, etc. But when the news hit the airwaves on CNN on Friday night I sprang to my feet and ran around the room like a mad woman. “We can get married in New York!” I shouted. I stomped my feet, clapped my hands and shouted, “Hallelujah!” like a church lady catching the holy spirit.

In this state of immense joy, my common sense sometimes disappears and irrationality sets in. When Mandela was released from prison on February 11, 1990, I had hit two glass bottles together that shattered to pieces, spilling remaining oil on my dress. My mother had grounded me, leaving me to express my joy facing a wall. Nearly two decades later when Obama had won the presidential election on November 4, 2008, my partner and I ran through the streets of Harlem shouting “Yes, we did!” We didn’t wear our jackets and I’m not sure if my partner had on a scarf. The only thing warming our blood and exploding in our brains was the victory and joy we felt when our voices had the potential to be heard. Same with Mandela. I was only eight years old, but somehow I knew his victory was mine. I knew it had meant that justice was finally on our side; that a once divided nation had come to its senses and was closer to brushing off its sleeves of Apartheid.

Of course, my joy in both instances was far from being contained. So can you imagine how I expressed this joy on Friday June 24th, 2011 when New York Senate ruled same-sex marriage as legal in the state? My first instinct was to smash two glass bottles together and get grounded again by my mother who would’ve heard the commotion all the way in Jamaica, reach across the ocean and hold my ears (Just kidding!). I intended to do something a little less daring, but daring nonetheless: I was tempted to run around my Bedstuy, Brooklyn neighborhood with my partner holding a rainbow flag shouting “We’re getting married!” Already, there were clappers (or were they?) bursting in a far distance on the street corners. Perhaps there were gay gangsters, Bloods or Crypts, who were just as happy as we were to finally express their love or long suppressed desire for each other. The whole world was love that night. Even stars took the shape of hearts, and for the first time I confessed to my partner how much I love America.

I pulled on some clothes and my running shoes. “Come, we’re gonna run around the block,” I said to my partner, my heart thumping inside my chest and making its way to my throat. “We’re just gonna run?” She asked while slipping on a pair of sandals. “Where’s your rainbow flag?” She asked. I looked around the apartment. Shit! “I left it at the office.” We stood there and stared at each other, a smile making its way across our lips like the dawning of a new day. After hours of putting stamps on our wedding invitations and trying to figure out the correct spelling of our guests’ last names, we decided that we were exhausted. Who knew that planning a wedding could be so physically taxing? We decided to express our joy that night by holding each other.

The next day, we spent the day at Harlem Pride celebrating the victory with the rest of the community. Our celebration trickled into Sunday’s Pride parade and celebration, which was bigger than I’ve seen it since I moved to the city. We celebrated every moment of our new found freedom dancing the day away, convincing ourselves that this isn’t a dream; it’s a reality, just like Mandela being freed was a reality and Obama winning was a reality. However, this reality belongs solely to us, close enough to grasp it with our fists as two women in love, two women who have endured the stares and rejections as we fight for what we believe in….the day, this day when we can be pronounced wife and wife in our own state.

Nicole

The strange thing about race and mentorship

2011-06-22T20:31:00.006+02:00

A fellow young writer advised me never to look to accomplished black writers as ideal mentors because some of them still have the "crab in a barrel complex". "If you write better than them," she says, "they'll either try to cut you down, snob you, or discourage you". She went on to say how she had to fight to get her MFA thesis read and critiqued by an author of color who was busy trying to make a name for herself.

This story my friend told me not only caught me off-guard, but strangely seemed like deja vu. Had I dreamed that she told me this already before it happened? Funny enough, the memory resonated like the stench of vomit on hot concrete. It all made sense why I would remember such thing as though I too had gone through it. I had reached out to mentors of color (not writers) in this way a long time ago. Other students had gasped when I told them this. "You should never ever do that!" A friend in undergrad had exclaimed to me once when I told him I wanted to be mentored by a professor in the Africana department. One would think I had confided to my friend that I had kissed the Queen of England on her left cheek and left a spit mark. I was confused and astonished by my friend's reaction. "Why?" I asked. "Is there a rule?" Another friend shook his head, still covering his mouth and glancing over his shoulders as though the professor, who was also an author of six Africana books would sneak up behind him and strangle him with a wordy metaphor absent of any punctuation. "She's not that nice. They're never that nice." The scowl on my face then was so deep that I felt the invisible indelible lines that I would probably discover one day in my late sixties. How dare him for bursting my bubble, for making me feel even more embarrassed for reaching out to this person....for telling me the truth. Like a bitter taste resistant to the efforts to get rid of it, such reality lingers, a memory forms, tainting even the sweetest experiences that come afterward. In my tenure as a student, I've come across many distressed students of color in my undergraduate and graduate years who confided how hard it was to work with a faculty member of color who they had expected would nurture them, help them to graduate, write their recommendations. Even if the faculty member of color were to bitch slap them in the middle of a lecture, those students of color would see this act as "tough love". The excuses in the professor's defense would come out sounding like the excuse of a battered woman in a police station: "Professor Y is just being hard on me because she knows I can do a lot better that the other students," or "Professor X didn't read my thesis until the end of July because you know,*sniff* he's going up for tenure and how many tenured Black professors do you see?" Or "Professor Y and I sat and stared at each other for the first five minutes of office hours because she forgot to read my manuscript and put me in her calendar."

I went to an Ivy-League university for undergrad where the ratio of black to white professors was 1:9 (it may have changed). Therefore these faculty members of color were held in high esteem by students of color only because they happened to look like us. I will admit that I was one of those students who had wished for Black professors and Black mentors only because I thought, stupidly, that we would connect, that we shared a common experience of being dark specs on beige walls of the ivory tower. Unlike the other professors I had, the professors of color would take the magnanimous form of a reincarnated Christ figure. And boy, was I wrong. Sometimes not even eye contact would be afforded to anyone who dared to go up to them and say hello. This reality was even more heart-wrenching in graduate school. Now at the beginning of my career in writing, I've begun to get those same ominous warnings of doom every time I see a black author I admire. "Be careful, she's a snob", or "Be careful, don't let him read your work. He's Caribbean too, and competitive" or "Avoid submitting to Black journals...you never know."

At first, I thought I recognized this social awkwardness that some Black professionals put up as a shield. In their aspirations to move up the ladder, they avoid any opportunity to take anyone with them (even if it happen to be wide-eyed ambitious students who may be even be more skilled than them); they would rather study you from a far, at arms length hoping that you will never get "too fresh", reach over and steal their crown, snatch their limelight. They will try their hardest to let you know "your place" by being the most discouraging. After all, some Black folks like to be the only ones in charge of their domain. Another ambitious Black person is a threat to them. In fact, they would rather remain unapproachable in case the charm they reserve for White folks rub off on you or rather, fear that with you around, they'll no longer be the "exotic" or the "unique" one. I know it hurts when you want someone to show you the ropes how they got to where you'd like to go and they end up not being supportive; but I like to look for the good in every situation (perhaps I do have that battered woman complex I described earlier). I like to tell myself that if they did it, I can do it too; that the reason they're so distant is because they want me to do the hard-work they did so that I won't take success for granted; that the reason they give me the other side of their heads is to show me how one's head can easily float off one's neck and remain in the clouds.What I learn: While there are Black mentors who are genuinely nice people who have your best interest at heart, it should not be assumed that all Blacks in certain positions would be the same way. Race should never matter when choosing mentors. Be careful when choosing a mentor to not only look at the person's credentials, color, and fame, but ask other students about them, observe them if possible in a class setting, schedule informal interviews with them to get a gist of their personalities, pay attention to how soon they email you back (was it an assistant that sent it? did it take a month? If so, then it's a bad sign); pay attention to how they treat you in a public setting as opposed to a private setting. Genuine mentors have a tendency to take you under their wings, publicly introduce you as their mentee/student/apprentice, ask you questions about your future, listen to you, and take the time to mentor you.

To hell with name dropping.

If you are one of those people who like to brag that you've worked with "SO and SO", then you're doomed. You should concentrate at getting better at what you do. If Joe-Somebody can help you more than Mr. Pulitzier-Prize-winning-novelist-journalist-MBA-MD-JD-PhD, then for Christ-sake, go with Joe-Somebody. You should never have to chase your mentor around campus or continents to have a meeting. That's a red flag.

Last but not least, pay attention to how you feel having this person as a mentor. If your body tenses and your breathing increases every time you think about meeting with them, then perhaps you're being nudged by the best adviser/mentor you'll ever have, your intuition.

Nicole © 2011

In the spirit of Sankofa: "It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten."

2011-06-17T05:21:00.010+02:00

I thought of my great-grandmother tonight. Thought about the fact that I never really mourned her death over a decade ago. Thought about the things she would say to me now, the wisdom she would feed me like spoonfuls of cornmeal porridge before nap time or the handfuls of ripe cherries from the tree in the front yard. Thought about how she taught me how to read and write. Thought about how she told me to continue learning my lesson. As a child, I took to her saying "lesson" as meaning school work, but now as I become more in tune with myself and the universe, I thought of this "lesson" as taking from the past to inform my present and move forward. I thought about learning from mistakes and growing from it. I thought about learning in general since I'll never stop learning and will never stop growing. As long as there is life, there is room for growth. Addy, my great-grandmother taught me that. The day I passed my common entrance exam in the sixth grade was the day that this five foot woman lifted me so high that I nearly touched the sky. Now I imagine her lifting me up where ever I go, hoisting me high above my insecurities and fear, and telling me to be confident always for as long as I live, I'll always be learning my lesson, I'll always be taking the positive things from the past, bringing them to the present and making powerful progress. When I think of Addy and what she has always taught me, I think of the Adinkra symbol, the Sankofa. A valuable lesson. "Learn your lesson", she always said. And I'm learning to move forward, leap across valleys and climb mountains knowing that her spirit is always with me...

Nicole © 2011

Obsessions of a book nerd

2011-06-15T19:47:00.004+02:00

I would never call myself star-struck, but truth is...I am. My mind refuse to reinforce the fact that I was sitting next to a human being. A human being who won the Pulitzer...a human being whose books I devoured and whose books have inspired me to write...a human being who overheard me talking about her work to my partner as I showed off my newly signed book, her book, not realizing she was sitting right next to me the entire time, smiling!

This person was Jennifer Egan. Of course I was forewarned in a good way by neighbors who know my love for her work. "She's in the neighborhood, you know," they'd whisper like wise ogers who could see right through the mechanics of my stimulated mind. Just like when they whispered the sighting of Jhumpa Lhairi, another favorite author of mine. I would force nonchalance with a shrug and say, "Nice," when in fact I wondered where they hang and do their shopping. Are they like the phantom Kerri Russel who everyone knows lives in Brooklyn but never sees? Then I'd go to the bookstore and someone would say, "Jennifer Egan was just here doing a signing!" A sigh would escape me, but not before I give the side eye: "When?!"

"People are people!" I'd say to anyone who panic at the sight of a celebrity. Yet, I freeze up at book signings. I clutch the books of my favorite authors between sweaty palms. I'd let everyone go by me to have their conversation with the author, and then when it's my turn I'd take deep breaths. "What's your name, love?" They'd have to strain to hear me stutter my name. An awkward silence would pass before they say, "Thank you for reading." I'd mutely nod and smile when really I want to let them know how much they've inspired me, how uncanny it was that they dug deep inside my thoughts with their pens, how incredibly-fucking-awesome I think it is when someone reads people that way and bring characters to life, how I think they're the gods and goddesses of the worlds they create and how they can re-write the book of Genesis and call it truth and I would believe!(OK...you get the point); but my partner would come up behind me and say, "She writes too, and she has all your books!" The conversation between author and I would turn into "What do you write about?" This is a question I dread. I scratch my head and avoid the expectant smiles awaiting me. "I--uh--write--uhm." It's a question that makes my heart beat faster and my lungs tighter as I think of the piles of unfinished manuscripts on my desk. After all, I'm not there to talk about my writing and how many times I've ripped out pages and throw them in the trash when I feel my work doesn't compare to what's being published. Rejection letters tend to do that to a person.

I never act this way when I spot celebrities. In fact, meeting writers is different from meeting celebrities. With celebrities, one swoon over whether or not they look the same in person as they do on tv; with writers, you stare at the homely looking person (except for Stephen O'Connor, Tayari Jones, and Mary Morris) dressed in something you'd see on the hangers at Target who shyly looks out at his/her fans. But as a reader you know that this person is the most powerful person in the room because they have the ability to look right through you, see things, shadows, a flicker of candle burning light into any given situation, your eyes, windows to your soul.

Once again I have to remind myself that people are people. Edwidge Danticat uses the potty too. Collin Channer, Junot Diaz, Marlon James, Kei Miller, Raymond Carver, Alice Munro, and my most recent favorites, Tiphanie Yanique and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. So what's the root cause of my intimidation? I imagine my therapist asking this. Hm...I believe it has to do with my first interaction with an author at a Buddhist retreat. I had just turned 21 and still naive and fearless. I walked up to Miss "Pulitzer" and told her how much I loved her book, how much I identified with a certain character, how much I hated another character. Miss "Pulitzer" looked at me as though I was speaking of another person's book. In a barely audible voice, she responded, "That was a long time ago, dear." My eyebrows must have shot up to my hairline because my skin stretched and stung with embarrassment. I almost uttered an apology, but at 21, I had no idea that I could offend someone with what I thought was a compliment. I vowed never to be that forthcoming with compliments again.

Fast forward to this year. I met two Pulitzer prize winning authors, Elizabeth Strout and Jennifer Egan, who have managed to erase the promise I made to myself years ago. I went up to them (well, pushed up to them by friends who thought I was being ridiculously shy) and voiced how much I love their work. I paused and waited for the razor sharp words laced with nonchalance. When all I got were wide smiles and a gracious "Thank yous" and "Tell me about yourself", I exhaled with relief. So not all accomplished writers are caught up in the clouds after all, I thought to myself. Although I still get anxious about approaching them given flashbacks, I am often pleasantly reminded that it's OK to be a book nerd and worship the people who made it possible.

Nicole © 2011

Someone once told me that they're preparing to be famous. My thought: where's the bucket?

2011-06-13T18:19:00.002+02:00

A former roommate once told me that she had a friend who told her that she was preparing for the day that she’ll be famous. Other than picturing this woman rehearsing in the bathroom mirror her acceptance speeches, I immediately pictured a woman, an African princess sitting on the stoop of a Brooklyn brownstone roasting in the summer sun, waiting for this coveted prize of fame to fall in her lap. I asked my roommate what her friend meant when she said she was “preparing”.

It’s not like fame is the type of thing that creeps on a woman like the onset of menstruation, widening her hips and filling her breasts with life’s potential to continue through her womb. My roommate laughed at my question as though I had uttered the cutest thing ever. “She’s right,” my roommate said while reaching in the refrigerator for a jar of peanut butter. “We should prepare ourselves to be famous. We’re going to be famous, Nicole!” I must have given her a queer look, because she finally gave up trying to convince me and retreated to her room, humming.

Years later, I still ruminated on my roommate’s revelation about her friend’s fate. I still pictured the woman sitting on the stoops of a Brooklyn brownstone roasting in the sun. I had no idea where this thought came from, but every time I thought about this phantom-soon-to-be-famous-friend of my former roommate, I thought about her sitting Buddah-like in the sun waiting for her destiny like a child sitting by a bon fire waiting to be initiated at a ritual ceremony.

Perhaps my imagination stemmed from the fact that I had no idea what she did for a living? Was she the type of writer who sits on park benches and on the edges of cliffs to spot the next idea without a journal or a pen? Was she the type of photographer who go everywhere without a camera? Was she the type of designer who only stares at people from the stoop of her brownstone without a sketchpad? I thought about the sun she sits in. That burning furnace in the sky that incites me to squint at dreams in the form of clouds. Those same clouds have sailed many a voyages across the sky in my childhood as I lay on grass to count them. One. Two. Three. I waited for a queen, sometimes a king, their crowns pointed like arrows. Dreams belonged to the sky.

How can one go about preparing for dreams to fall? Would they lose their mystique when they land in our laps like fallen angels? Would we realize that they weren’t for us to begin with and let them back into the sky like free doves? Many people dream dreams that aren’t theirs, but for someone else. Many people dream dreams and easily get them yet take them for granted. Many people dream dreams that they get, but quickly regret getting them.

Therefore, perhaps the concept of “preparing” for dreams makes sense after all. Perhaps one should always make sure to have the right everything to make their dreams feel at home inside their souls. Like preparing to have a gold fish for a pet, one must buy a tank, fill it with water, and buy fish food. But that doesn’t stop the gold fish from dying the next day.

My granny always says while we plan, God laughs. A fish may have all the water and food it needs, but life and death have other plans. It’s great to have dreams, but while we look forward to achieving them it’s also important to live in the moment—those moments that will never come again. I remembered while I was in college how much I used to dream of being the woman I am today with my own independence, living in New York City, and doing what I love. However, if I had the choice of being transported back in a time capsule for just one day, I would choose to re-live those college days eating ramen noodle soup for dinner and having the most fun with people, who like me, were young and free. I would go back to 2001 when New York City was still a mystery, an oyster waiting to be cracked open and explored.

Life, like those clouds in the sky, move on. At sunset the sun bleeds into those clouds as they rest behind the hills come evening then disappear. Live your best life now and experience the dreams you never knew you had while sitting and waiting for the one you thought you had. Yes, good things come to people who wait, but what you do in the meantime is just as meaningful to your growth. In fact, “the meantime” is what prepares you for the ever-evolving life ahead of you. There’s nothing one can do to prepare for dreams to come through besides live. Life is not about calculating each and every move like a chess game. If that were the case all the time, then when would you have time to look up from the checkered realm into reality?

So when I think about my roommate’s friend and my picturing her sitting in the sun, waiting, preparing, I realize one can never prepare for such things as fame. The only preparing is to live and work hard with hopes that whatever we do makes us happy and perhaps will inspire others.

Nicole © 2011

To be born again...

2011-06-09T19:36:00.005+02:00

I had a conversation with a woman who said she wishes to please her parents and do everything they say til the day they die. My question to her was: "So you mean you're willing to sacrifice your happiness for theirs?"
Woman: "Yes."
Me: "But they already lived their lives, now it's your turn."Woman: Looks at me like I'm crazy and shrugs. "My happiness doesn't mean as much to me as much as it would hurt making them unhappy. I hope that makes sense."
Me: "No."

I walked away from this conversation with a terrible feeling inside my stomach. Indigestion? No. An odd sense of deja vu with the accompanying mix of anger and sympathy? Could be. I couldn't believe that some people are willing to sacrifice their happiness to remain as statues frozen on pedestals. One gentleman told me that he can't come out of the closet because he doesn't want to disappoint his mother. He shook his head, staring at the floor as if he was seeing the image of his mother's deep frown flash before him. I remembered a time when I had felt the same way until one day finally deciding that living a lie was eating me alive. The Bible says to honor our parents, however how much is one willing to give in order to be that perfect daughter or perfect son? Most importantly, does it hurt more to live a lie than to be rejected by loved ones?

People always tell me that they'll keep up the charade of model off-spring until their parents die, but every time someone utters this I think of them digging their own grave. In the lgbt community for example where many people are still not able to be who they are to their family, I witness them taking out their frustrations in other ways. I see coke addicts, drunks, pill poppers, abusers, cutters, over-eaters, dare-devils who already feel dead in the land of the living. Existing inside mental closets is like being buried alive. Some people have to self-medicate themselves in order to turn on the life switch that programs their minds to smile, laugh on cue, hug, cry, pretend with the opposite sex, be happy. They're nothing but mere zombies trying their hardest to please everyone but themselves. They say things like "I'll wait until my parents are no longer here to love freely," which leave them counting the minutes and hours, ignoring their own ticking clocks.

I witness this in individuals who are straight as well where people get married to the wrong person way too early because a parent is on the death bed and wants to see this marriage happen, or another parent thinks this marriage is supposed to happen and they rush to do so. I've seen people not marry the persons they love because they didn't get the blessings of a parent/grandparent. It's as if the umbilical cord is still tied around their necks, making them blue in the face with deference.

On the other hand, there are those people who choose to be open with who they are. Even the strongest among us sometimes crumble under this pressure. Given that words are the most powerful weapons, the minute a parent utters the words "You are dead to me," it causes an emotional domino effect, an ongoing mission of self-destruction as the subconscious adopts this as truth. But there are those who knew their worth way before anyone can tell them otherwise; and there are those who are quick to crumble with devastation. Yes, nothing hurts more than a parent saying "I'm very disappointed with you", but when you think about it and realize that you came into this world as an individual and not as the sixth finger on your mother or your father's right hand, you will begin to embrace the fact that this life is your life to live, the only life to live.

Parents, especially mothers, may talk about the sacrifices they made, but you can say to them listen, you appreciate everything that they had done but truth be told, you are your own person with your own needs and expectations of yourself. They may not like to hear this, in fact they may even stop talking to you for a while (my mother hadn't spoken to me for a good three months after I came out to her), but in the end they will realize that you're still a part of them and there's nothing they can do about that besides love you.

One day I will be a mother too, so as I'm writing this, I'm very careful not to say anything I'd later regret. However, I will end with this thought: Some mothers hire doulas for the physical birthing process of their babies, but what they really need, some of them, are life doulas---people who are there with them to constantly remind them to push and keep pushing; people who are there to continuously help them give birth to their children's ever evolving needs and growth, even if this growth isn't in the direction they expected. On a similar, but not so similar note, many people never remember what it's like to exit their mother's womb, but what we will remember forever as adults is the challenges, the emotional turmoil, the physical struggle in the form of sleepless nights and indigestion, the arguments, and finally, the triumph after breaking free again, exiting the mindset of living for others.

To be born again this way is the most liberating feeling.

Nicole © 2011

Jamaica: Which of your worlds do I belong?

2011-05-18T21:53:00.027+02:00

I’ve been thinking about moving back to Jamaica. The thought has been an ongoing one, like the constant knocking of a woodpecker making a hole in a tree outside my window. There are days when I’d wake up yearning, wondering what life would be like back home. I was still a child when I left. Sixteen. Therefore, I don’t know what adulthood feels like there.

Many Jamaicans, especially those of the lower middle-class have been socialized to believe that America is better. In fact, with looming poverty and social inequalities that plague parts of the island, it’s no surprise that if given the opportunity a lot of those Jamaicans would jump ship. A recent visit there in my old neighborhood in Kingston showed me a glimpse of what life would look like without opportunities. I ran into acquaintances from the primary school I attended and some of them have college degrees, yet they work as security guards, secretaries, odd jobs that are simply helping their parents to pay rent and put food on the table as they struggle to make ends meet for their own family. Some of them are still waiting to hear back from job interviews as their student loan bills from UWI fill their mailbox. In their slow, languid movements and long faces drawn into constant frowns, I suspected that the heat isn’t the only thing weighing them down. I saw a complacence that reminded me of cows swinging their tails while chewing on grass in a nearby pasture. But from the way their eyes lit up, the fleeting flames drawing me closer when I got them to start talking about their passions and what they hope to do with it when they apply for visas, I can tell that somewhere inside they’ve been preserving all their energy to live life outside the small island.Meanwhile, on the other side of the island in the far reaches of the hills surrounding Kingston is a world I’ve gotten closer to through education and travel; a world that I used to catch glimpses of in high school but never thought the people in that world knew about the working class to even care about such a thing as social inequality. It’s a world where I now fit in, still feeling like an outsider nonetheless; looking inside with the wide eyes of that child I left behind, her shadow shrinking the more I grow into a woman. Had she seen me now, she would've shied away in awe, would've given me a toothless smile as I wave goodbye to her.

Now I can be gay and out in this world, just as long as I stick to the right circles and hang out in the right places; it is a world in Jamaica that would embrace me and my partner with open arms; a beautiful, pampered, private world where I would return as a prodigal daughter and my partner, an expat and live freely like those other expats I read about: the couple who decided to move to Jamaica last year from the US and built a bed and breakfast, which is now very successful; the lesbian couple who has a villa where tourists come and stay and who have gotten great reviews as one of the top vacation spots in Jamaica; the woman who quit her job in finance and moved back to Jamaica to become a full time yoga instructor. She lives in the mountains and breathes in the fresh air each day. I can bet she isn’t missing New York.
Of course, the mental disposition of Jamaicans who decide to make this drastic move back home has been questioned by other Jamaicans. “What’s there for you?” they may ask. “Don’t you see that America is the land of opportunity?” If only they understand that there are so many aspects of Jamaican living. There are Jamaicans living in Jamaica right now who make more than a social worker or a teacher makes here. In fact, sometimes I find myself wondering which is better, the institutional and sometimes blatant racism (especially when it comes to people’s reaction to Obama in office) in America that has no cure or the homophobia in Jamaica (which is not really a problem if you’re in the right circles)? I’d choose Jamaica. Perhaps I’m delusional, but from where I sit, I see potential back home. This potential may not be obvious to the classmates who I went to primary school with, the ones who feel stuck where they are; but it is obvious to me, someone who has had many opportunities elsewhere yet still feel an affinity to the country, an affinity that I can now afford to have (minus student loans). Key word here for happiness in Jamaica is “money”, lots of it. The government might be shady and crime might be high, but take a step back and notice the people who aren’t complaining. Last year May when the search for Dudus took full effect, inciting the violence in Down Town Kingston, I noticed on facebook there were people “liming” on the beach, taking photos or just talking about the weather. The first question I asked myself was: “Where in the world are they? Are they in Jamaica? Do they know what's happening beyond the smokey vale of clouds surrounding the hills they live on?”

I realize now that the world where I came from in Jamaica and the world that I now see as a possibility for me there are two separate realms.

© Nicole 2011

When homophobic bullies do AIDS Walk, run.

2011-05-18T00:50:00.010+02:00

This weekend I participated in the AIDS Walk, NYC. With the help of friends and coworkers, I raised $200. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to put towards free syringes for a needle exchange program or purchase bags of condoms for a community based organization. I was very excited to walk, although it rained. What more could we expect from the month of May? Central Park was lush with greens all around. But more prominent than the green hue of the newly budding shrubs were the red and white t-colors in honor of AIDS Walk. The park was filled with people from all walks of life—people that I assume were all affected by HIV/AIDS in some way, whether they knew a loved one who died from AIDS, someone who’s infected with the HIV virus, or perhaps they work in community health or volunteer with a church or company that sponsored AIDS Walk.

One would think that AIDS Walk is a safe space for LGBT individuals given that it’s organized by one of the most prominent gay run AIDS service agencies in the city, Gay Men’s Health Crisis (GMHC). The first walk was held on May 18th, 1986 as a way to raise money for GMHC and battle the stigmas associated with HIV/AIDS. But as I did the walk on Sunday, May 15th, 2011, twenty-five years later, I was astounded by the level of ignorance that still exists, in regards to homophobia, one of the factors associated with why it took so long for certain groups to realize that HIV/AIDS was no longer a “gay disease”. Perhaps this shift in paradigm was what had contributed to the lack of awareness and sensitivity that I witnessed on Sunday. It was certainly an “us versus them” complex, a “gay versus straight” mentality, which divided individuals within the walk, particularly the young people who were walking.

The first incident that made me realize this occurred when a cheer-leading team made up of young men and women cheering the walkers on as we made our way through the middle of the park. That was when I heard a group of teenage boys behind me utter: “All those n***ers are gay, son! Everyone here is so gay!” I immediately shot them a look and without thinking twice, asked, “So what if they’re gay? Is that a problem?” The shortest boy in the group looked at me and laughed, his Adams bobbing up and down his scrawny neck. It turned out that he was the ringleader, so the other boys all paused to hear his response. “No, it’s not a problem, because I'm a lesbian” the boy said, laughing, his crooked teeth visible. He was looking me square in the eyes as if daring me to say something about his ludicrous declaration. For a minute I almost believed him, almost apologized given that I know lesbians who look like teenage boys, lesbians who refer to themselves as “bois”. However, by the way how this teenager was laughing and carrying on, I knew he just made another ignorant joke. I rolled my eyes and continued to walk with my partner and a coworker.

The kid never uttered another word about the male cheerleaders after I confronted him, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this is what gay kids in school have to go through each day. The ignorant tortures of kids like the one I had to put in his place. Further into the park I came across another group of entertainers who were dancing to house music and techno for the crowd. This time, the ring leader of the pack of another set of high school kids was a girl. “Oh my god, they’re so gay! Just look at them!” She said this as if she had just spotted a group of rats on the platform of a subway station gnawing on human flesh. “Just look at them!” She repeated. I was so taken aback that I looked to see where she was pointing. Maybe she did see a group of rats devouring garbage. After all, it’s Central Park. But when I saw that she was indeed pointing at the men dancing in their tight jeans and knotted red shirts, I was appalled.

The young woman was with a group of boys who all laughed with her. Their laughter rose above the buzzing of the crowd and the music, crashing like the clanking of pots and pans on my eardrums. This infuriated my partner who was also aware of what the kids were laughing at. My co-worker, who is a gay man, said something to one of them. A minute later one of the boys in the pack said to one of his friends as they passed a group of girls, “I know that one is a lesbian because she’s ugly. Only ugly girls become lesbians!” I couldn’t believe my ears. In 2011 at a walk that is supposed to be for fighting HIV/AIDS in our communities and the stigma, prejudices, and secrecy around it, this was the level of homophobia I witnessed. I realized that day that one may walk for a cause, but that doesn’t mean they necessarily believe in it. Take AIDS Walk for instance. These kids have no idea that that their homophobic comments are the very thing that drives many people inside the closet and bury them so deep in denial that they don’t find the community and support they need to live healthy lifestyles. As the old saying says, “We’re only as sick as our secrets”, but when we have a community that fosters these secrets by keeping these stigmas alive, we will never get better.

Moreover, the kids who made those homophobic comments are the new generation. They’re the ones who will determine whether or not our community will continue to suffer the way it has been suffering. Yet, there was no one to tell them to stop making these homophobic slurs at an event like AIDS Walk; no one to question their motive for being there and challenge them on the issues we face in our community and why a walk like AIDS Walk is important.

My first instinct was to believe that someone had forced these kids to do the walk. Perhaps it was a requirement for them to obtain credit in school or perhaps a parent or older sibling or guardian had dragged them along without explaining to them why they’re there. For them, AIDS Walk must have been a social event where they could meet up with friends and hang out, friends who may one day become victims, friends who might be gay but because of comments made in their groups and because everyone wants to be accepted, never come out of the closet; friends who’s secrets might one day fester like a sore, their silence killing them slowly like poison.

Nicole © 2011

Prodigal daughter #345

2011-05-02T22:40:00.027+02:00

So much has happened over the past week. One of them was Penn Relays. I was able to go to Penn Relays for the first time ever this weekend and was blown away by the amount of fellow Jamaicans that populated the stadium at the University of Pennsylvania. Who knew! My partner and I were surrounded by my country men and women, most of who were cheering on our team in high spirit despite the freezing 52 degree weather. I felt for the Jamaicans who were coming into the cold straight from Jamaica. I found that many of them had flown in; however, nothing would prevent them from representing Jamaica in all their colors.

I was telling my sister who wasn’t able to attend that this was another event that brought me closer to the culture. In my young adult life, I’m re-living the experiences I felt I’ve missed out on growing up, track & field being one of them. I’ve never been to a track meet at the National Stadium decked in school colors at Champs. Therefore, Penn Relays has become my way of re-living this experience and LIVED I did!

Yours Truly and four handsome Kingston College gentlemen/runners

The weather didn’t stop us from cheering the Jamaican runners on the top of our lungs (well, my partner cheered for her American runners---How dare her! LOL). The sun came out in all her glory just in time to warm us up and light up the field, perhaps reminding our runners that she’s always with them.

Outside there were other activities going on. Grace Foods had a dance contest where we stood and watched some guys do their latest moves. I was able to learn a few new moves before my trip so that I can outdo the "kiddies" at Fiction Lounge with my grown and sexy self!

A year ago I began this journey of immersing myself into my culture and have learned a lot since. I’ve grown into my own and have even felt closer to Jamaica and the people than I’ve felt while living there. Even my partner has fallen head over heels with Jamaica. We’re literally one decision away from living there; packing all our things to make a life there, plant flowers, fruits and vegetables in the yard of a nice house on one of the hills overlooking Kingston and sending our little one to a good school where his/her dreadlocks won’t be an issue. I’d teach yoga and Pilates and continue to write many books while my partner can teach at the university. The life.

Nicole

There's hope in the word: Advise from an unlikely mentor

2011-04-08T22:56:00.004+02:00

Nina Simone: To be Young, Gifted and Black.

Sometimes we just have to be grateful for the little things or what appear to be little things in life. Last week, for example, I had expressed to you how I’d taken the advice of a literary agent who contended that agents don’t take on writers with collections of short stories. However, a chance meeting this week with Elizabeth Strout, Pulitzer Prize winning author of the short story collection “Olive Kitterage” gave me so much hope that I literally flew across the sky and back again. “Agents need you, honey. They need you more than you need them,” she had said as she clutched my beaten up book (the one I read five times) that I gave her to sign. It was the most amazing thing an accomplished writer has ever said to me (besides poet Nikky Finney telling me at a reading that she was so grateful for my questions; they made her think).

I had always expressed to my partner how much I desire the mentorship of an older writer--someone who has accomplished a lot and don't mind taking the time to mentor your writers seeking to build their own paths in the literary world. I've reached out to a few, one in particular who is young, Black and well---gifted. But to my chagrin, she has looked the other way, more interested in the height of her heels and what she'd wear to AWP than mentorship. This broke my heart as I had thought belonging to a certain group meant reaching out to mentors of similar hue.

Silly me for believing in sisterhood. But then again, who wants to babysit others? Bestselling authors have better things to do like book tours, readings,live up to the expectations of their lucrative advances, teach overzealous students, and manage not to spill wine on their clothes at book parties. I've since realized that what I was looking for as a young writer was a simple word of advise that I could take with me and cherish forever. And that was exactly what I found this week from someone I least expected.

Since the first day on campus, Miss Elizabeth Strout, a visiting writer in residence, and I bonded over our tastes in similar books, Alice Munro in particular. She had even asked me who my other favorite authors who inspire were, and I had blushed into a fit of soft giggles like a dumb cheerleader in front of a jock as I uttered her name first before I listed Paule Marshall, James Baldwin, Alice Munro, Edward P. Jones, Junot Diaz, Edwidge Danticat, Jennifer Eagan, and Jhumpa Lhairi. I felt myself gaining confidence as I watched her put her hand on her chin as she focused, contemplating my words like she does all her flawless sentences on a page. After a while she was pulled away by other students who wanted a piece of her precious time; but she left me with the most precious gift of them all. Her word of sound advice loaded with optimism: "It can happen. Don't you dare give up and listen to others; just keep pushing froward and believe".

Nicole © 2011

From modeling agents to literary agents: Diary of a model turned writer

2011-03-31T23:23:00.017+02:00

At 19 a modeling agent told me that I was too short. “How tall are you?” she had asked, looking at me above the rim of her designer glasses. Her brown eyes regarded my face, clutching it like the invisible hands of an artist examining a finished piece. “I’m 5’9,” I announced proudly, squaring my shoulders to gain height. Her well-shaped brows rose to her heart-shaped hairline as she tapped her pen against her full lips. Had I not been a potential model, I would’ve allowed myself to stare, to imagine kissing those lips with my inexperienced ones. “Come here,” she said, gesturing me to come closer to where she sat in the middle of the room. Her assistant, a tall effeminate man with the humble, yet proud peacock decorum of a fancy butler wore a smirk on his face as he too watched me walk towards them as though I were already on the runway (my attempt at showing how well I walk).

Once I reached the agent, she took off her glasses. Up close her skin was a radiant brown—one which appeared as though she had never aged beyond her supermodel years as one of Jamaica’s top models back in the early ‘90’s. When I stood before her, she rose from her seat. She continued rising like a tree growing in front of me, well over six feet I assumed. By the time she was on her feet, she was hovering over my head, a smile that read “I told you so” plastered on her face. She was standing so close that I could almost feel my legs buckle as my lungs had filled with the subtle vanilla scent of her perfume. “I’m six feet,” she said, “and right now I can tell that you’re shorter than 5’9.” I had no choice but to swallow my tongue and nod like a dumbfounded schoolgirl as I looked up at her. She told me that she loved my look and suggested that I do petite modeling (for shorter girls). I simply thanked her and moved on with my life, later becoming a model elsewhere.Fast forward to 2011 where as a writer, I’m going through the same process of contemplating literary agents. Yesterday I met with an agent on campus, an older white woman with rosy red cheeks and youthful blue eyes. She didn’t quite give me the schoolgirl butterflies the modeling agent had incited, but her demeanor was just as intimidating as she paid close attention to me, her eyes narrowing as though she could see the words I spoke when I told her I have a collection. One thing she said was, “We hardly take collections of short stories. We want novels.” Once again the memory of the modeling agent flashed across my mind: “You’re too short.” Panic crept inside my stomach and I swallowed. “What do you mean you don’t take collections of short stories? That’s my entire thesis.”

Her eyes softened at my words as though she sensed that I was about to have an artist breakdown—these are breakdowns where the artist hyperventilates, questioning our strengths and abilities; the kind of breakdowns where we compare ourselves to others and have nightmares of not being able to pay rent because everyone in New York City wants to be a writer (oh, yeah and a model) and here you are with a rejection letter that crippled your ego and forces you to look in the mirror, raise your fist and sing Destiny’s Child” I’m a survivor” on the top of your lungs until you break down in tears and find the courage to re-submit since your life as a professor at a swanky liberal arts college like Vassar and a respectable author—not the cheesy, commercial self-published types, but the real ones with displays at Barnes and Nobles—depends on it. Phew! (just catching my breath here).So there I was standing in front of this literary agent having one of those internal breakdowns. It wasn’t like I could square my shoulders, put on a pair of heels, and announce that I’m not too short; it wasn’t like I could shout on the top of my lungs saying, “I’m beautiful dammit!” No. This time, it’s my work that’s on the line, a body of work that I’ve spent countless hours putting together, have turned down many social events just to finish, have flaked on many friends, and closed down many a Brooklyn cafes just to revise.

In my mind I thought of the pieces that I could make into novels. Then an idea appeared. “I have a novel, but it’s not done yet” I lied to the agent. She nodded at me like a doting mother appraising a child who had just uttered the first word. “Wonderful! Well, you shouldn’t force a novel if short stories are your strength. Do what makes you comfortable and send those out to different journals. Once you start getting published in those journals, you will build a reputation as a writer. Only then will your collection be accepted by agents. But it doesn’t hurt to have a novel in the works.”

Unlike the rejection I endured at the modeling agency at 19, there was something about this information from the literary agent at 29 that had me rise to the challenge. As a serious writer I couldn’t walk away and move on with my life defeated by rejection letters and agents. In these situations my grandmother would’ve asked “What would Jesus do?” But instead, I chose to ask myself, “What would’ve Edwidge Danticat, Tiphanie Yanique, Jhumpa Lahiri, Junot Diaz, and Paule Marshall done?” They would’ve written some more and send more work out, build the reputation they now have. That’s what they would’ve done; and that’s exactly what they did! Sounds like a lot of work? Well it is. I’m learning this everyday in my program.

I must admit that my legs had buckled as I learned that literary agents like modeling agents are highly selective in who they choose to represent. But now, I have a lot more inside me to make up for my height (although I’m still taller than the average woman). I have stories that will someday stand as tall as beanstalks creating shadows for generations to come. I like to tell myself this, because I believe that anything is possible when I put my mind to it.

Nicole © 2011

MISS JANET JACKSON....JANET if you're nasty!

2011-03-22T16:29:00.025+02:00

Last night I saw Janet Jackson for the first time LIVE in concert. A sold out concert! I was so in awe that my partner had to nudge me a few times to see if I was still breathing. The screams all around finally grounded me in the moment; and I was able to embrace it and treasure it for life. I don’t mean to sound like one of those demented fans (oh well, maybe I am!) But I told myself that if I should die today, it would be OK because I finally got to see Janet Jackson in person and had even breathed the same air as her in Radio City Music Hall. Less drastic than that, I think the concert made my year and it’s only the beginning!

I’ve waited almost two decades to see this woman perform. I’ve been a fan of Janet Jackson since her self-titled album “JANET”, released in 1993. I was barely 10 yet I was crooning to love ballads such as “Again” and “That’s the way love goes”. It wasn’t until “The Velvet Rope” in 1998 that I became more in love with Miss Jackson. I had gotten my parents to purchase the album so that I could listen to it day and night. Of course at 15, my hormones were surging, pulling me into fantasies beyond my control. “I’m in love with Janet Jackson,” I had said to my best friend in high school one day during lunch time. She simply shrugged. “Who isn’t in love with Janet Jackson?” she asked, returning back to her sandwich. “No,” I said. “I love Janet like a man loves a woman.” She paused and looked at me like I had just sprouted two heads. She never said anything to me after that so I gathered that I had crossed a line in our friendship. Professing my love for Janet Jackson at 15 was the first time I came out as queer. It was a milestone, an epiphany I’d never forget.

Queer: The word that comes to mind when I remember how my friend had looked at me when I told her of my attraction to Janet—it was a look I imagined one reserved for aliens, freaks, Siamese animals at a circus. Queer. For this reason, I don’t define myself as such. Now I say that I’m a lesbian—a woman who loves women. Not how a man loves a woman; but how a woman loves a woman--the way I thought I loved Janet then; the way how I love my partner now. Of course with Janet, it was teen lust, but whatever, the feelings were there and I couldn't ignore them.The Velvet Rope got me through a deep depression after coming out. I began to fail all my classes, was put on academic probation, and had even begun to distance myself from people. One of the singles on the album “Free Xone” incited me to rise above what I was feeling and took life into my own hands. An idea emerged like a light bulb one night as I cracked my books open again. I literally escaped in my school work, slowly rising above the average grade. While many kids used other means to run away, I used books. The results came in the form of college acceptances to far away places where I could be myself. The opportunities afforded me my sanity and freedom. Now when I tell people that I love Janet Jackson they don't even have to ask. They already know. I can be myself and not apologize for it. Thanks to that Velvet Rope album in my teens, I sprouted rainbow wings and flew in the direction of the wind, flying over hills and mountains and across the ocean. I’m finally home in my skin.

So when I got an email from my partner’s uncle last week that he knew someone with Janet Jackson tickets, I jumped on it. This was the same night when the Super Moon was shining bright into our kitchen, stirring all kinds of memories and nostalgia within me, reminding me of a time when I had prayed hard for the blessings I have today. It was on that night under this moon that I remembered how significant a role Janet Jackson had played in me realizing that not only do I love women; but I owed it to myself to be truthful about it and love myself ten times more.
Miss Jackson, I thank you for a wonderful concert last night. If you heard someone screaming above everyone else in Radio City Music Hall that was probably me, declaring my love for you with my partner next to me who I’m sure was thanking you too, because her scream was louder.

Nicole © 2011

On this full moon...

2011-03-20T07:19:00.019+02:00

March 19th, 2011: According to NASA, the full moon tonight is called a "Super Perigee Moon" since it is at its closest to Earth. This hasn't happened in 18 years. (It's also in Virgo, which probably explains my intense reaction to it).

****
As the full moon hovers above the kitchen window of my brownstone, shining bigger and brighter than I’ve ever seen, I welcome her inside. I’m always grateful for her presence, but tonight something stirred deep inside me like the tides in the ocean. These tides rise from the depth of my being as though a storm were near, bringing up long forgotten memories to the sand. She has come to remind me of something.

The memories wash up like seaweed. I’m transported back to a time when I never dreamed I’d ever be where I am today, living, loving and laughing...a lot. I remembered a time not too long ago when I lived on Long Island as a new immigrant with a dream; but first I had to prove myself to a resentful step-parent who told me I wasn’t worth anything and couldn’t accomplish anything; I’m transported back to Jamaica where I realized that the dreams I had were bigger than the Island itself and the way I loved was too queer for small minds to wrap around; even my first love didn't get it as she crushed my heart with guilt and denial. All these long forgotten things came back up to the surface with this full moon like a flood rushing in as a result of the high tides, reminding me of my strength and perseverance. They crash upon the shores and leave all the garbage from the depths of the ocean, cleansing my being. I’m now standing on a rock watching those memories flutter at my feet like dead fish. On this rock I take a deep breath, thanking God.This new moon is here to remind me that there was a path that I took to get here. Just in case I'd forgotten, I'm reminded of a path with a silver lighting that had guided me through the darkest shadows. I’ve had my share of darkness and now I see light all around: I’m learning to seize the moment, savoring life as it comes. Thus, I believe that I'm accomplishing my dreams, living THE life, my life, and loving it. I’ve found love and love found me in return; I’ve found my passion and my truth. I am truly blessed.

Of course I'll still have doubts; but this full moon has come to remind me that my previous struggles have made me stronger, and more able and determined to walk on the waves, the cool surface of rippling water pressed against my heels like an elevated platform propelling me forward. For this I'm grateful.

Nicole © 2011

Today

2011-03-17T22:21:00.000+02:00

65 degrees: It’s the type of weather that makes me want to take the long way home, purchase a bouquet of lavender and bright yellow flowers at the corner store, twirl in the streets, leap across puddles, sit in the sun, walk into a café and lounge by the window, eat outdoors, entertain long conversations with cab drivers, ride my bike around town, buy a new dress, daydream about wearing it in the summer, hold my partner’s hand as we stroll through city parks and people watch, pull out my colorful scarves and oxfords, do pirouettes on pointed toes as I shout on the top of my lungs, “Tis spring!”
Nicole © 2011

Ruminations of a new writer

2011-03-15T18:16:00.004+02:00

Picture by Shelley Jackson

I spent half of this weekend scouring books and journals in Barnes & Noble, trying to figure out where to publish, who would love to publish my work and what I’d do when I see the letter “Your work has been accepted into our journal”. I think about writers before me whose names I now know like I know the names of my siblings and family members without an ounce of doubt. I think about the ambition and perseverance these authors must have had to take rejection letters like bullets to the chest and rise above self-doubt like David in the face of Goliath. It must have been even harder then without the technology we have today, which we can send off manuscripts with the simple click of a button.

How many times did Paule Marshall, for instance, send off pieces? Which cafes did she find that she could sit for hours pouring coffee in a mug as the sunlight shift from East to West? Who were the people in her writing circle who told her that it would be more poignant if Selina, the protagonist in her bestselling novel “Browngirl Brownstone”, refers to her mother as “the mother”? Back then MFA programs and cafes weren’t so chic like they are now. Even Virginia Wolfe acknowledged this when she said that all a woman needs to write is a room of her own. Nowadays, we find our favorite neighborhood cafes and sit with our laptops as ideas flow from our minds to our fingertips. Forget laundry and cooking and other housewifey stuff (well, for now), a story needs to be told and we’re telling it.

The challenge comes when it’s time to publish. First, in order to submit a piece I’m finding that I have to cut chunks out of a story in order to fit the word limit. This means that three paragraphs of pertinent details are at the mercy of the delete button. For instance, how in god’s name would the readers know that Sarah and Benny were friends with identical moles and a hair sticking out of it? Oh Shoot! Editing becomes an instant tool as we revise our pieces, cutting irrelevant details and repetitive words. In two hours, your 9000 word manuscript would be a new, glistening 7500 words.

Another thing I’m finding out as a new writer is dating. I’m not talking about dating people; I’m referring to dating journals. That’s what it feels like to me as I sift through the shelves of Barnes & Noble in search of Journals that seem like they would like my work. I research ways to court those journals, take them out to tea like a true lesbian and give them a thorough reading before calculating ways to seduce them, using the techniques I notice that they “fall for” in the work they publish.

However, usually I stick to my guns with my stories though, sending them off hoping that the journals would like what I already have. Like true love ought to be, unconditional. I strongly believe that as writers, we should write for ourselves first and think about the audience later. Just like how I believe as individuals we shouldn’t change ourselves to be accepted by others. Writing is about purging, so what’s the use of swallowing your own vomit to please someone else? (Well…if you’re writing for a magazine or a major blog that’s paying you instantly per word then that’s another story. Rent needs to be paid, so swallow that ego right quick!)

Seriously though, I wonder if the fact that I’m a woman has anything to do with my inclination to be complacent with “dating” journals. You know how as women we were taught to be courted and not the other way around? Therefore, now I’m trying my best to do the exact opposite. I'm putting out like there's no tomorrow. I’m reaching out to these journals and submitting work as though my rent is due today and I need to get paid! In the back of my mind, I hear a man’s voice saying in a fatherly way, “That’s my boy! Go get ‘em!”

Lastly, I’m beginning to see the importance of writing retreats and conferences. For a new writer, this is as fundamental to our development as breast milk is to a baby. (Even if you weren’t breast fed, you catch my drift). At conferences you meet the gods of publishing. This is where you put on your best “writerly” self (minus the overpriced vintage outfits and fedora hats). I’m talking about networking, rubbing shoulders, sipping wine as you gush to other writers about their works and cross your fingers that they’d introduce you to their publishers, editors, or agents. Perhaps you have sent out query letters before, but being present at a conference exposes you to options galore!

Also, going on writing retreats will help keep you away from the distractions of daily life. Sometimes these retreats are perched on mountain tops and in deep forests where we will connect with our spiritual and creative selves. For what is a writer without a soul rooted in the universe? It is the universe that grants us our deepest wishes when we come face to face with our truths.

Nicole © 2011
(blog soon to be published in Poets & Writers)

Enabling workshops and their consequences

2011-03-13T19:47:00.005+02:00

This week I sat in a space of ten people critiquing a manuscript of someone who took it upon himself to write the entire narrative in Ebonics. While I understand that depicting the voice of a character is essential to any fictional piece, I was taken aback by this person’s bold attempt to tell a story in Ebonics. My first question to him was “Who will read this?” I didn’t want to seem bourgeois in any way as I disclosed to him that the journals that he’s aiming for may never understand this; but then again, the fact that his character was based on a stereotype of Blacks, I wouldn’t be surprised if it gets published.

My anger simmered even more when all the white people in the circle declared how much they loved the piece. “This is awesome!” One person announced while clutching the paper. “Such a unique voice in which a story is told,” another person said, nodding in agreement. I wanted to turn around and ask them, “Would you have picked this up in the store? You say it’s awesome, but who do you think the audience would be? Is it only great for the illiterate Blacks you assume would read this crap and digest it like grits and honey?”

Since I was the only person in the space to voice my disapproval of this piece, I pulled the author aside and spoke to him—black writer to black writer. I asked him why he wanted to tell an entire story in Ebonics, dropping the "N" word and the "B" word like there was no tomorrow, and not just minimize it to dialogue between characters. He shrugged and said the expected, “It’s the authentic voice of the character. That’s how he speaks. That’s how he tells his story.” I wholeheartedly agreed with this, but something deep inside me wanted to probe more, to save him from whatever it was that was out there—perhaps to save him from the boogie monster disguised as editors who will throw this piece into the rejection pile, slam dunkin’ it like Michael Jordon. “Not even Michael Jordon talks like this!” They would say to each other. In my imagination, that is what they’d say. But in terms of marketing stereotypes of Black people and making millions, the editors would probably fish the manuscript out of the rejection pile, straighten out the edges, and publish it. Isn’t that how “Video Vixen” became a New York Times Best Seller?

Here I am trying to write my stories depicting Blacks in a new light, a light that we never saw in music videos and on television; yet it is the stereotypes that sell. The mention of “N” word, the “B” word, sex, guns, and drugs are all elements that they expect would make up the compound of black literature. Therefore in a space where such crap was being workshopped, everyone tiptoed politely around the obvious. It took a lot for me not to have gotten up and walked out of the workshop. Not only was I hurt by the complacency in rigor they gave this guy’s piece, but I was hurt by the fact that they were enabling him. This made me skeptical.

Although I really like the people in the workshop, I took four steps back that evening, searching for the honesty in their eyes as they spoke of other pieces that were workshopped. Would they have cold-heartedly let someone publish a crappy story, telling the person that it’s great when there are tons of errors? Or is it that the guy’s story made them so uncomfortable that in order to dismiss the piece and save face, they had to declare their love for it, pulling a white lie between their teeth like a string of gum that could be easily swallowed.

Moreover, perhaps they were looking to me, one of two other black people in the space, to critique this piece without fear of being accused as racist. Perhaps they figured if they were to say they liked the story, it would leave room for me or the other person to ask the questions they didn’t want to ask like: “Who the hell is going to pick this up to read?” I couldn’t even get through the first paragraph much less to know what the story was about; yet no one raised this as an important issue to talk about.

Surprisingly the other black woman in the circle who also shies away from stereotypes in her own work never raised an issue with the piece. Her silence was one that I interpreted as shock. This shock was the same that I experienced as I listened to each and every one of the other writers go around the room and say they love the piece. This shock was a sobering one, one that is telling me as a black writer that once a piece covers race-related matters; people won’t tell you when you’re falling over a cliff for the fear of offending us. But I would rather be offended in a workshop where I’m paying a lot of money for, as opposed to going out into “the real world” with my piece of crap and a false sense of confidence.

With that said, I think there is a huge disadvantage in an enabling workshop. Since a person cannot choose the personalities of the people they workshop with, my advice to a writer who wants constructive criticism is to study the personalities of the people in your group and only pay attention to those who say what’s on their mind regardless of whose toes they step on. Those are the people on your side. It may not seem that way at first since we all have big egos that we love to preserve; but truth be told, you’re doing yourself an injustice if you sit back and hear all the compliments without directly asking: “So what DIDN’T you like about the piece?”

Nicole © 2011

LIving my moment ...

2011-03-10T04:00:00.004+02:00

As spring makes her way to NYC, I can’t help but think about my blessings. This year alone I’m living my dream, absorbing each and every moment. A new chapter has definitely started indeed, and it’s far from boring. Already I have three trips booked (one to Europe and two to the Caribbean, with one already stacked away this year); my art, which I enjoy creating and taking to a another level of perfection in my wonderful MFA program; and of course, the effort I’m putting into working on myself. I can’t ask for anything better right now. Given that I’m living in this moment, I’ll worry about tomorrow when it gets here. But for now, I’m reveling in today, kissing the wind, chasing the sun, wrapping my arms around life, feeling her full bodied and willing.

Nicole © 2011

Soundtrack: Nikki Minaj, "Moment for Life"

Going fishing on Valentine's Day?

2011-02-11T19:15:00.007+02:00

According to urban statistics, New York City is filled with more single people than a convent. So it’s no surprise that as Valentine’s Day approaches, my single friends are already dreading it like the plague. They look on, wide-eyed and hopeful at couples passing them by, wishing that they too were in a relationship. However, little do they know the work it takes in a relationship, the amount of time dedicated to it, the sacrifices, the pitfalls, the triumphs, and the love. Valentine’s day is only one day out of the year to show off, but what about the “nitty gritty” of a relationship that takes more than one day to work through?

After three years I’m still learning what being a partner entails. Truth be told, I thought I knew it all. I thought it was as easy as acing a calculus test after cramming the night before. Little did I know that like calculus, in order to ace this romantic test, I’d have to practice, practice, and practice. It becomes fun and exciting to arrive at epiphanies, those “AH-HA” moments with my partner as we work out our kinks with each other. We quickly realize that there is no such thing as a ready-made cake, even if all the ingredients were aligned in the stars. It takes a lot of work to bake that cake together before putting the cherry-flavored icing on top. Isn’t that what marriage is about too? You grow and you learn together as a couple?

As a couple we each came in with our own pasts, our own demons, and our own strengths. I found that the only way for a relationship to work is if we complement each other. This in itself is a very important component in any relationship. Why pair with anyone who is not capable of enabling your growth? Why consider a lifelong partnership with someone who is not able to complement your personality? For example, I’m an artist, a free spirit who somewhat lacks the ability to consider details if it has nothing to do with writing a well informed plot of a story; my partner on the other hand is a very practical go getter who moves heaven and earth to get things done her way. She pays attention to the fine prints that I may have overlooked and challenges me in ways I could never challenge myself.

Moreover, considering the unique traits that we each love about each other, which we happen to learn more about as we grow together, it’s hard to act on surface attractions. In other words, I can't imagine taking on someone else’s issues, which may be even worse than what I'd be giving up. In the movie “Why did I get married,” Tyler Perry calls this the “80/20 rule” where a person gives up what’s real for something perceived as real and ends up losing out.

I’m not saying that attractions to other people don’t occur, they do. We wouldn’t be human if it didn’t. But it’s how they are handled that becomes the critical part. It’s fun for couples to talk about crushes without feeling threatened. In fact, it spices up the relationship when one can joke about a crush or a former crush, and the other one commenting on how big the person’s head is. You begin to see how big the person’s head really is and you laugh together, tickled by imperfections that our blindfolds had us overlook.

This brings me to my next point: Fishing. Given that relationships can be revered when seen from the outside looking in, especially ours; it’s highly recommended to protect what’s inside. I’ve learned the hard way about dishing too much information to the wrong person. For instance, someone I knew started going fishing, constantly asking how’s my relationship, when is the wedding, how is my partner. AS IF! This is someone who I'm not even that close to. I’m sure she could care less about my partner and our relationship, yet constantly feels the need to ask.

One thing with living in Brooklyn is that you become surrounded by ghosts that resurrect within the incestuous scenes. I’m beginning to treasure privacy, taking pride in keeping what we have as sacred. Not everyone needs to know every struggle we have or every triumphs.

With that said, this blog is written more to inform those outsiders looking in on relationships thinking they’re a piece of cake. It’s not until you go fishing in your own lake that you realize that the success of catching the right fish is undoubtedly exhilarating; but cleaning it, seasoning it, and cooking it to your liking is hard work. Once this is done and you both begin to get fuller and fuller as you grow, the real challenge then becomes preventing others from going fishing on what you regard as sacred; but not holding back in telling them how far both of you have come.

Nicole © 2011

Welcome to Jamrock: Ruminations of a local trapped in a tourist's world

2011-02-04T00:13:00.024+02:00

I just spent the past few days basking in the sun. Jamaica opened up her arms and welcomed me once again. I was happy to return with my partner for a second time, this time to take in some wonderful musical talents at the annual Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival held in Trelawny. It was awesome. I got to see Maroon 5, Regina Belle, SWV (yes, they still got it!), and some great local artists who blew my mind!

For the most part my partner and I were able to be open with our relationship. Perhaps being at a resort has something to do with having such liberty; also being in the midst of a Jazz and Blues festival that is known to attract a very progressive crowd (we were informed by hotel staff that the type of crowd the festival attracts are foreigners and wealthy locals from the upper class given the expense. Despite the freedom to flex my liberal muscles, this annoyed me a bit given that I would've loved to be a part of something that ALL Jamaicans are able to afford and appreciate). Moreover, the only thing that seemed phase the locals in Montego Bay where we stayed was our dreadlocks. I had forgotten that unlike Kingston, Mobay is not as progressive when it comes on to locs. Many of the people we met on the resort were in awe of our hair, often giving childlike stares as we pass by. Therefore, two women wearing dreadlocks are as foreign to them as two women holding hands and kissing on the beach.

Believe it or not, this was my first time staying at a resort in Jamaica. Usually when I go home, I stay with family. Last year my partner and I stayed at a hotel in Kingston, but we weren’t isolated from Jamaica like we were on the resort in Mobay. In fact, while observing the peaceful lull of the turquoise ocean, the sea breeze rustling through my hair, I couldn’t help but wish that my all-inclusive hotel wasn’t so exclusive at all. I missed the musical cadence of patois in the streets, the kiss-teeth of frustrated pedestrians waiting on over packed buses, the children crowding sidewalks in blue and khaki uniforms, the smell of roasting peanuts and exhaust fumes from broken mufflers on robot taxi cars, the vendors beckoning people to buy the fruits that they picked from trees grown in red soil, the artists weaving baskets and handbags and whatever that comes to mind, the feel of the sun opening up like a furnace in the sky inciting glistening sweat on black skin miraculously preserved through time, the water coconut and freshly cut sugarcane served under shades of tamborine trees, the smell of cooked food simmering under someone’s zinc shed, the sound of a radio program belting the sound of reggae music or the voice of a local disc-jockey who reads the news, the boisterous laughter of young women with slicked back hair tied in buns, powdered necks, long uniform skirts, and languid movements analogous to snails, the watchful gaze of old people with knowing looks on serious faces that once transformed into wide grins at the announcement of Jamaica’s independence on that hot August day in 1962.

It’s probably obvious by now how much I yearned to be in the heart of Jamaica as opposed to being on the outskirts designed by foreigners to attract more foreigners. On the coasts of Jamaica, tourists are only given the watered down version of the country. It’s like giving diluted black coffee with sugar substitutes to a non-diabetic who loves strong sweetened coffee with milk. As I interact with staff on the resort a part of me wanted to ask them what they like to do for fun in Mobay. They usually delight in telling tourists where to go, but I wanted to know where locals go and go along with them. Where do they go to unwind after smiling like 100 watt bulbs at petulant tourists? How is it that they are able to live a dual existence with one foot placed in a fantasy and the other rooted in the reality of our country?

My heart sank when their eyes would scan my face as if trying to discern whether or not I am one of them. Living abroad for so many years has made me somewhat ambiguous to them, foreign even. If I confirm their suspicion that I’m Jamaican, they quickly avert their eyes as if ashamed to be caught in the act of selling a country to tourists, that if given the opportunity, they would flee in a second.

On a good note, my partner who is American immediately adopted Jamaica as her country too. In fact, there were times when she disappeared, only to be found conversing with one of the staff people on the resort. She made more friends with staff than I did. Somehow she was able to get me and the seemingly aloof staff to break the ice and converse as Jamaicans, quickly shedding our masks of pretense. I was immediately stripped of my ambiguity once I opened up to them. Their serious faces transformed immediately into bright smiles, sparking amusement in their eyes. “Your accent is gone,” they’d muse with widened gazes. Of course, I flinched at the sting of their innocent observation. “No it’s not,” I retorted. “My accent is still as strong as yours.” But to my chagrin, they shook their head at me as if I were a three feet tall infant who just announced that I was six feet tall, their smiles apologetic, and their eyes sympathetic. I’ve been gone for too long. “I’ll get it back then,” I informed them, straightening my shoulders. That’s when they gave me two thumbs up before transforming back into their roles of servitude, this time with a friendly, familiar twinkle in their eyes: “Can I help you with anything else?” It was now my turn to shake my head. "Nah man, mi good."

All in all, we really enjoyed our stay. My partner is already planning our next vacation. And this time we’ll plan to thoroughly experience the best of both worlds...no matter where we go.

Nicole © 2011

When in doubt, google

2011-01-24T21:40:00.006+02:00

Last week an acquaintance wrote on her facebook profile, “When in doubt, masturbate.” It struck me as a slogan: A message glued to the bumpers of cars for drivers to look at while in traffic while they try to decide which turn to make. I imagine the idea entering their minds as they sit during rush hour or at a stop light with their blinkers on; their hands slipping off the steering wheel to somewhere else. I know what she meant (as in safe sex), but since my mind tends to wander sometimes (or maybe all the time), I couldn't help but imagine this is what one would do when in doubt, when the little decisions in life become mild dilemmas: Turkey versus chicken for dinner, filing taxes with a company versus doing it online, balsamic vinegar versus salad dressing, brunch in Fort Greene versus brunch in Park Slope, blue blouse to work versus green. One would imagine fingers working mechanically as one tries to make up her mind, perhaps arriving late for work, perhaps settling for fish, perhaps forgetting to file her taxes, perhaps not choosing neither balsamic vinegar nor salad dressing, yearning instead for another viscous liquid taste on her tongue, perhaps wishing her indecision will last and last…and last.

So I made a list of things I like to do when I’m in doubt:

1)Write. When in doubt, I like to write. It may not incite an instant orgasm like masturbation does, but it hits the spot. For me, a literary orgasm produces more than five seconds of suspended bliss where each stroke on the keyboard is another thought being processed, another story being told. I can allot my carpel tunnel injury to typing too quickly for long periods of time as opposed to working my fingers in places where I’m lucky enough to have someone else do the work.

2)Fruits. When in doubt, I love to chow down on grapes. Usually I have supplies in the fridge for those moments when I’m trying to make up my mind. The advantage is that it’s better than junk food and I won’t gain weight from being too indecisive.

3)Spinning. When in doubt, I hit the gym and head straight for my bike. Luckily I have a great spin instructor who is also a motivational coach, so when I’m done I always feel like I just walked out of a spiritual retreat, a gym, a spa, and a sauna all wrapped up in one. The advantage is I get my money’s worth and come out feeling like a champion.

4)Watching Seinfield. When in doubt, I relax on the couch and watch my favorite sitcom. It’s a great way for me to unwind and stop thinking for a while. As a writer my mind is constantly working around the clock. So it’s a relief to find something mindless to do, like watching tv.

5)Call my mother. When in doubt, a nice conversation with the wisest woman on earth helps. Although she may not be familiar with the details of certain decisions I have to make, her words of encouragement are priceless.

6)Consult my partner. When in doubt, there’s nothing like having a person who is my exact equal with whom I can bounce ideas and get helpful feedback. That’s the reason why it’s called a partnership: We help each other grow along the way.

7)Therapy. When in doubt I like to stretch out on a couch for an hour and talk to a licensed stranger. Everyone in New York City has a therapist, which I find absolutely necessary for our well-being. It allows us to slow down and mentally and emotionally dissect our thoughts, organizing them into epiphanies amidst the chaos.

8)Jill Scott. When in doubt I like to listen to this beautiful singer croon some common sense and reasoning into my ear. She often tells me to “Live my life like its golden,” and I do, no matter what decisions I end up making.

9)Facebook. When in doubt, I have to admit that sometimes I look to facebook for answers. Sometimes when the other options aren’t available, I post a status stating my question and in two seconds someone responds with an answer. Last week I wasn’t sure if a local lounge in my neighborhood was closing and posted the question. In a minute, someone responded to confirm this closing. What a way to get news updates!

10)Wikipedia. When in doubt, I look things up on Wiki. In my opinion, this was a great invention that saved me many a boring trips to the library.

11)Google. When in doubt, I google. I can’t begin to count the amount of times google saved me when I was single and dating. People tell me their names and I would instantly google them. I had a prospect tell me that she was a vegan personal trainer with a buff body, natural hair and tons of important clients only to google her name and find that she was an obese secretary with a bad weave. I stopped responding to her emails. On a good note, before I went on my first date with my current partner who I met in person and instantly fell in love with, I googled her after asking her out, panicked that I would swallow my tongue. I saw many hits about poetry. It was then that I learned that she is a poet, so I read her some poetry on our first date. It didn’t occur to her until later in our relationship why I had read her poetry over dinner. I confessed.

12)Pray. When in doubt, I like to talk it out with the supreme. I learned a long time ago that prayer doesn’t have to be a formal thing. I pray like I’m talking to a long time friend, one who actually understands me more than I understand myself. Let’s just say when the conversation is over, I feel more relaxed than I’d felt before, and more confident to take the chosen path.

Nicole © 2011

It's a good day!

2011-01-22T16:06:00.003+02:00

New York City is covered today in snow looking like a white blanket spread over the ground, on roof tops and on trees. As cumbersome as it can be sometimes, I love snow. I love trudging through it with warm winter boots and hearing the soft ice crunch beneath my feet.

Someone saw me beaming and said she could tell that I was having a great day. Given that this was early in the day I responded with an exuberant, “So far so good!” Her brows furrowed a bit and she asked, “Why so far? Are you expecting the day to get worse?” I simply shrugged and told her that I say “so far” because it’s still too early to declare my day a success. Anything can happen to turn a good day into the exact opposite before it ends, right? But that was when I had to stop myself.

As I listened to myself speak I dreadfully realized that I’m a pessimist. It occurred to me, after all these years of describing myself as an optimist, that I’m nothing but a pessimist who lacks the ability to live in the moment. The fact that I end every statement of happiness with “I’m doing great, so far”, “I’m feeling wonderful, so far,” is not only disturbing to me, but to the people I interact with. Moreover, not only does my statement indicate pending doom, but it is a result of being raised in a very worrisome environment where the women in my family used to clutch their crucifix and pray with worry, fearing that they had no control over their lives; fearing that something bigger than themselves had the ability to dictate their destiny, rape them of their hope, beat them out of wanderlust desires to see the world, strip them of their courage to dare to dream or anticipate the outcome of their day.

Of course, I too believe in the existence of a higher being, but I also believe in taking control of my destiny and not living a life of fear, but one of faith. Doesn’t that sacred Bible teach this too? However, despite my defiance of such nonsensical superstition, I’ve subconsciously internalized the fear that paralyzed my mother and grandmother. Although I’m a free-spirit who have lived, loved and laughed fearlessly, I still harbor that careful sensibility by punctuating my declaration of happiness with “so far”—I’m only happy “so far”; and if “God’s willing”, only then can I stay that way.

Can you see the level of paranoia attached to these statements? It’s as if I’m waiting for doom to come, crouched like the pious old women I had seen waiting on their time of death, forgetting to enjoy the present moments life has given them, and believing that it can last. It’s as if they never thought of themselves as worthy of living, worthy of being free or entitled to claim life as their own. That statement “God’s willing” is proof of this, but I’d like to ask them: who is God? Isn’t she you and me?

Ironically, I didn’t start to question this until my friends, my partner, and other people with whom I’ve interacted look at me with concerned faces when they ask me how’s my day, and I say “It’s going good, so far.”

“Why are you so pessimistic about the day?” They’d ask.

At first I thought it was a cultural thing. Coming from a country where there’s a church on every street corner like foreboding artifacts seemingly marking our days, I bought into the fear that life as it is, is only temporary, something that has to be spoken about with caution, never forgetting to put God’s name first when making plans; only making passive statements and not a declaration of one’s current state of being, including happiness. For, happiness, like freedom during slavery can be taken from you at a moment’s notice.

That’s when I realize that something has got to change in the way I perceive my moments in life. I have to live in the moment, see it worthy of claiming and expressing my happiness without fearing that it will all be taken from me. Tragedies may happen to others, but that doesn’t mean that I should internalize it as my reality and live in such fear of it happening to me. I have faith in the supreme and trust that everything will be OK. I was put here to live, not fear. With that said, I can now honestly say that I’m having a wonderful day.

Nicole © 2011

Where is the support for writers of color in the dwindling economy?

2011-01-18T23:16:00.015+02:00

Writers of color have very little support. Is this a fair statement to make? The only reason I say this is because I’m finding that many of the readings/festivals/conferences/publishing houses focused on developing and/or showcasing the work of black writers, particularly young black writers, have fallen through the cracks of our current economy. Even if these forums appear, they often disappear in the blink of an eye with outdated website pages that give error messages or events dating back to a year or two years ago as if nothing had happened since. It's like seeing a house in a Forrest that promises to have occupants who are able to point me in the right direction, but only to arrive and find it boarded up and empty inside.
Not that that we should only go through these venues to showcase our work as writers; but given that the literary world is made up of a majority that don’t necessarily care to listen to our voices, having these small forums to share our work as writers of color, in my opinion, is necessary. I think about the readings featuring writers of color that I’ve attended as a college student and how inspired I was to hear them and to know that there is a market out there for us. I’m not even going to touch on how I’m noticing that publishers are picking up street-literature as a way to perpetuate the stereotypes of what our lives as black people in America are about. That’s another blog all together.

In a country where race is very much an issue and have drawn many an invisible lines, it’s no surprise that there is a huge disparity in the literacy rate and hence a dismal proportion of people who are inclined to read well crafted stories by people of color about people of color. I think about James Baldwin and his success in writing “Giovanni’s Room”—a story featuring a white protagonist. I wonder how the story would've fared had it been a black protagonist. Perhaps stories about “the invisible people” won’t make the cut in today’s society where the literary world seems as homogeneous as Primetime television. In my opinion, good writing consists of meaningful work that can be shared with others both inside and outside a writer’s demographic.

Moreover, I’m noticing more and more that authors of color barely get any scholarly recognition. Last semester, my first semester in my MFA program, I had a craft class where I was given a list of authors to read, all white, mostly male. I was told that they are the “forefathers of literature” and that their work should be emulated, the same how I was told as a child that the Bible, written by men for the sake of their own prejudices, should be revered.

Of course, I sent the professor a long email stating my feelings and the reply was: “Sorry, but the authors listed all have work that contributes to the scholarship of our craft. This class is about technique.” Excuse me? Did I hear right or was I being told that there are absolutely no black authors with work that “contributes to the scholarship of our craft”? I can name five writers off the bat without catching my breath with work that has contributed enormously to literature: James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, Walter Mosley, Paule Marshall, and Zora Neale Hurston. Certainly there are more, but since those were the authors I suggested to the professor, I stated them here too. The professor’s reply was simply: “Maybe next year, I can write them into the syllabus”—MAYBE being an operative word here.
I guess if I want to make a major contribution to literature, then I should either: 1) Move back home to Jamaica and publish there---then of course have my books ripped off the shelf and burned given the focus on lesbian stories; or 2) Change all my protagonists to white and upper-middle class and not have any revealing information about author’s race and ethnicity. Of course, given that I love myself and my work too much to do any of the above, I will have to spend majority of the year working rigorously to find the writing community I desire. Authors Tayari Jones, Edwidge Danticat, and Tiphanie Yanique are doing it, so I’m sure there’s room for the five or ten of us “colored folk” in MFA programs in the United States to be successful too. I am very grateful for the literary journals that have included diverse authors in their publications. Pen American Center and journals such as Callaloo, Kenyon Review, and Granta are pioneers in diversifying the literary community by exposing readers to authors from different countries and races.
Lastly, I’ve been told that if I’m so in need of a community then I should create one. But where do I start? What resources do I have? Who do I look to and in what ways would they be able to help? If literary festivals like Calabash, a festival near and dear to my heart, could pick up and leave without a goodbye letter sealed with a promise, then why should I have faith in the other efforts to keep black literature alive? If independent publishing houses with an eye for diversity are losing funds and only putting their last dime on publishing writers who they’re more familiar with, what else is there to do besides join the slush pile of the bigger sharks and hope some sleepy-eyed editor would stumble on my manuscript? The best I can do right now is write, and hope someone will read it, hope someone will be inspired by it, hope someone will teach it in a class, hope someone will say to themselves and their respective groups that they need to hear more stories by us.

Nicole © 2011

Grateful

2011-01-13T19:14:00.007+02:00

After a two week hiatus I’m back to blogging. I only took a break to polish up a few stories that I’ve been working on. I had gotten so deep into my writing mode, that I almost forgot that I had a public blog. This only means progress, right? I had been typing so much during the snow storms that I got carpal tunnel and had to slow down a bit on my wrist. But I pulled through, and here I am typing a new blog.

I haven’t been following up on astrology lately, but the last time I heard, there was a Solar Eclipse on January 4th. From what I’ve read, Solar Eclipse always falls on a new moon, and new moons open paths to new experiences and opportunities. This is not too far-fetched given the drastic changes that have happened in my life over the past week, for the better. Let’s just say I’ve finally found the balance that I need in my work, school, and creative life, and it shows.

One particular experience that touched me this weekend was an encounter with a former church sister, a mild mannered middle-age woman in her late forties. Once upon a time when I attended church regularly I formed relationships with people who still, to this day, would inquire about my well-being. But I haven’t seen this particular church sister in the two years since I left the church. Yet somehow she remembered that I had expressed a passion for writing. At the café where I was hovered over my laptop, I heard someone say my name. When I turned, it was her. “So you’re finally doing it!” She said with a wide smile. It took me a second to remember her face with a new haircut that made her look ten years younger than I remembered. In that moment I remembered she was the one who prayed with me when I sought direction in pursuing my dream. She was the one who said I would be amazing at what I do and that I should just step out on faith. “Yes, I’m writing full time now,” I told her, suppressing the urge to hug her as I told her this. Of course, given that I was in a Brooklyn cafe surrounded by other writers who glanced in my direction the minute we started to talk, I lowered my voice.

My church sister clapped her hands in delight, oblivious to the stares as if I had just told her I published a book that made it to Oprah Winfrey’s book club. I smiled along with her, happy that I had this support all along. “What are your stories about?” She asked as she sat down across from me. I gulped my chai tea and glanced nervously at one of the writers, a fellah at the table next to mine wearing a plaid shirt, ripped jeans, sporting a blondish fuzz around his face—as I searched for the right words. I looked my church sister in the eyes, saw her smiling expectantly and knew I couldn’t lie to her.

I cleared my throat and replied, “Lesbians.” There was noise in the background, someone had spilled a cup of coffee on a communal counter, a toddler was crying, a siren was passing by. “What was that? Sorry I didn’t hear you with all this noise,” my church sister said, scooting closer. Glad that she didn’t hear me the first time, I wondered if I should fabricate something about what I write about. “My stories—I mean I write—ah—this might not be something you’d be interested in. It’s a bit controversial,” I said. She moved closer. “Interesting. What do you write about?” She repeated. I scratched my head and looked down at my computer. “This might not be a—,” I stopped myself and decided to just spit it out. “I write about lesbians.”

To my surprise she was still smiling. “What about lesbians?” She asked. I told her. As I explained the details, she nodded like a student taking in an important lesson. When I was done, she said, “You didn’t have to be ashamed to tell me what you write about. I think it’s wonderful. Everyone needs a voice and you’re providing that voice. And besides, other people may learn from it and identify with it too.” I wanted to hug her when she said this. Here was a woman who I thought would’ve judged me to my face given my topic of interest and what I never admitted to being while in the church. But instead, she welcomed my ideas and offered her support. Handing me her business card she said, “Call me. We should get together soon. You will reach more people than you think with your words. Next time, don’t hesitate to talk about it no matter who asks.” With that she gathered her belongings, including an oversized Bible. “I don’t want to keep you any longer. You got some very important work to do, missy,” she said before she left.

I never realized that I was holding my breath all along until she closed the door behind her and I let out a loud sigh. Of course, there was a huge smile on my face that never went away. On my way home, I whispered a prayer, my first in a long time to the only person who must have been watching all along—the one who sent me this pleasant reminder that my steps are being ordered. “Thank you,” I said.

Nicole © 2011

2010: The year I found Art and God and loved them fiercely

2010-12-31T15:20:00.020+02:00

In a few hours 2011 will approach, announcing her presence in the form of horns, confetti, and champagne kisses. With 2010 stretched behind me like a red carpet, I gracefully make my first step into the new year feeling blessed.

2010 has truly been a fantastic year. I learned a lot this year, especially about myself. I also accomplished a lot. It wasn't until yesterday as I got dressed for work that I realized that 2010 is the end of a decade. There is significance to this given that it represents the end of a chapter, and the dawning of a new one.

Speaking of accomplishments, yesterday I submitted two manuscripts to different anthologies. In the writing world, these anthologies are called literary journals. I walked away from the post office feeling like a true writer. Like author, Chinua Achebe who said that at the beginning of his career he sent out his first and ONLY copy of his manuscript "Things Fall Apart" with faith, I too let my work go with good faith. I've also gotten a nod to read my work at an upcoming Caribbean Literary Festival(Another excuse to go to Jamaica twice in one year!)

Submitting my work was symbolic. It was an act that I never thought I would find the guts to do. Given that I'm a generation x writer, it's always easier to submit work online, but there's something empowering about walking to the post office with an envelope and taking the extra time to mail it. Like my writing ancestors before me, I learned that if I want to be a successful writer, I'll have to make that effort no matter how much snow is on the ground (and yes, there were still 2 feet of snow on the ground from that blizzard that covered New York City).

What I learned most from 2010 is the importance of sowing seeds. I learned, or rather re-learned that I have to work hard to make things happen. My grandmother always said "If yuh want good, yuh nose haffi run", meaning if I want the prize, I have to work hard to earn it. I didn't know how hard I was working until I overheard a coffee shop worker at the cafe I frequent whispering to the other one saying "Chile, that girl works so hard. She comes in here when we open and leaves when we close. We might be serving the next Oprah or somebody". This had put a smile on my face. It means I'm doing something constructive with my writing time. As author Walter Mosely always says, "Treat writing like a job. Get up and do it everyday". This is synonymous with what poet, Sonia Sanchez says: "Just like you spread your bed everyday, the same goes for writing." I will take all these great writing advise into 2011 and work hard towards building my portfolio.

I mentioned Jamaica earlier. Believe it or not, my country is my muse. My mentor says that authors tend to write about the place of their origin when they're away from it. This is very true for me. In fact, it's so true that I find myself calling my family members, even estranged ones, and friends more often to ask them certain details about parts of the Island or certain sayings in patois that began to fade from my memory. We became closer in those conversations. I even found myself skimming through history books that I used to put down out of boredom in high school, devouring the pages like I've never seen them before. Then I wanted more, so I went on an incredible journey in 2010 with my partner, where we set out on my first trip back to my country after 5 years--her wanting to know more about where I'm from and getting to know my family who have all embraced her, and me wanting a visual snap shot for my stories as wells as to re-establish my connection there. Since then, we've booked tickets to go back, officially making Jamaica our second home.

Therefore, writing has brought me closer to my country. With an artist's lens, I saw beauty; with my heart I saw family; with my mind, I understood that the oppression I faced growing up gay and dark skin was something that caused me great sadness, but it was also something that strengthened me as a person and as an artist.

So lastly, as 2010 fades in the distance, I will always remember my progress, knowing that 2011 will be the beginning of a successful chapter, God's willing.

© Nicole

From fiction to spectacle: Is there a true meaning of Christmas?

2010-12-27T18:14:00.006+02:00

This week I was very excited to celebrate Christmas. In fact, I had a great season decorating our Christmas tree, giving and receiving some wonderful gifts, visiting my partner's family and stuffing ourselves with good food. We even tried a thing with baking a Jamaican Christmas cake from scratch, my first time doing so! It turned out lovely!

The only thing missing was church. Yes, I said it: Church. I have to admit that I'm one of those persons who have lost sight of the true meaning of this luminous holiday season embellished with decorated pine trees and pepper-lights. I used to go to church and give thanks for the birth of Christ, but this year I found myself intellectualizing my faith too much to adhere to traditions. Instead, I give thanks on my own. I can't remember a time when I've felt truly invested in the worship rituals of my "religion". Not only has the religion been utilized as a weapon of deceit and judgment; but it has also been the foundation of many a prejudices in our society.

However, in addition to giving thanks to the supreme being on my own, I do partake in the beauty of this "religious holiday", often relishing in my days off from school and work, using it as an excuse to indulge in rich foods, visiting family, decorating the home (my favorite!), attend parties and gatherings, take advantage of sales, and give salutations such as "Happy Holidays' to end conversations with strangers who would've otherwise remained strangers. We tell each other "happy holidays", only to be politically correct when the truth is, "Merry Christmas" is simply too overrated.

In a place like New York City where strangers ride the subway, bumping into each other while managing to maintain their own capsules of a private life, no one really cares whether their neighbor (who they hardly see)is having a "happy holiday" or not. Just like how no one cares to hear the answer to the famous rhetorical question, "How are you doing?".

Unlike the suburbs where everyone knows each other, in New York City, no one knows what's going on inside their neighbor's home, whether or not they had just gotten a divorce, have no custody of their children; whether or not they're religious; or whether or not they have a place to go. "Happy Holidays" remains a band-aid or rather a temporary blindfold to real problems just for those few days of hearing Frank Sinatra singing "Have yourself a Merry little Christmas" on repeat.

Moreover, for such a religious oriented season turned marketing propaganda, this is such a cruel way to distinguish the "haves" from the "have nots". I guess this is would be a perfect opportunity to extend a "helping hand" to those in need like Jesus would've done, right? However, what's the use of only extending that "helping hand" only for the Christmas holidays and not every day of the year, whether or not it gets written off our taxes?

This is why I say that although Christmas is supposedly a "Holy" day, it really has become a spectacle.

© Nicole

Reaping the harvest of 2010

2010-12-22T23:25:00.013+02:00

The ending of this year has been very special. I'm done with my first semester in my MFA program, got the workshops I signed up for, started working on my thesis, and got a chance to interact some more with my awesome classmates.

I knew in the beginning that I would be in classes with some of the most talented writers in the country or even internationally, but I wasn't prepared for how beautiful their personalities would be. I have yet to stumble upon any form of competition, which creativity can sometimes bring. My experience as a writer interacting with other writers is by far different from when I was a dancer. As a former dancer at a prominent dance company, I've lived through the blood, sweat, tears, and vomit...yes, girls purging their souls to get that lead.

I guess writing is such an individual thing that when writers come together, we celebrate our temporary breaks from solitude, giving each other support and feedback before we each crawl back into our separate caves. I've never felt so lucky to be surrounded by a group of people who share my interest.

As 2010 ends, I give thanks to the universe for aligning my path with some great people and great opportunities. I can let go of this year knowing that it was a wonderful year shared with some wonderful people. It was also a year that I was able to reconnect with family, and Jamaica after a five year hiatus. I was also able to travel to my beloved Paris, France and take in the wonderful city which will be my home someday.

To top off the year, I got engaged to the most beautiful woman in the world, and learned how to ride a bicycle with her all over Brooklyn. We'll do the same when we get married, attaching empty cans to our bicycles and ride down Lafayette Avenue with "Just Married" posted on our backs. Too cute!

I look forward to sowing more seeds in the new year and enjoy the blessings to come.

Nicole

For Colored Girls--My personal Review

2010-11-30T21:09:00.020+02:00

I didn’t read the book. Neither did I see the play. But I watched the movie. Of course, I was hesitant to pay $12 to see another Tyler Perry movie where women are always viewed as the predators, the whores, the highly educated ice-queens, the alcoholic man-loving-baby-denying mamas, the overweight-Jesus-Freaks-with-no-common-sense….I don’t need to go on.

So when I heard that For Colored Girls was now in Perry’s hands, the first thought that came to mind was another episode of “Diary of an Angry Black Woman” meets “Why did I get Married 2” which were nothing but clichés and stereotypes dissolving in poorly written, insipid lines and overly dramatic plots.

On the day after Thanksgiving, I took the risk and invited my parents who are big fans of Tyler Perry, to see For Colored Girls with me. The entire time, I nibbled my way through a bag of large, heavily buttered popcorn (keeping in mind that I had to return to the gym on Monday), and watched out for the first indication of a stereotype that would hit me upside the head as in all Tyler Perry’s films. For the first 30 minutes, things looked OK, but then there was Lady in Red (Perry's typical highly-educated-high-net-worth ice-queen), played by Janet Jackson’s character and her “down-low” cheating husband.

Immediately I lost my appetite (internally grateful for the 500 less calories I would’ve absorbed but annoyed nonetheless), having to blink twice at Tyler Perry’s attempt to perpetuate the ignorance in regards to the down-low brotha being the HIV-causing monsters to black women. Give me a break here! Why is Perry feeding into this crap? There were women in the theater throwing up their hands, muttering cuss words at the screen at Janet Jackson’s DL husband as if their own hetero-realities aren’t as horrific given that HIV is no longer just a “gay man's disease”. I swallowed my annoyance with a sip of cherry-coke, wondering when Tyler Perry will actually come out of his own closet and set us free from this stereotypical-gay-bashing-internalized-homophobic mess he often feeds us on screen.

After an hour, the pace of the movie slowed until I was awakened by Lady in Brown (Kimberly Elise)’s husband, played by Michael Ealy, dangling their toddlers out a window. Like everyone else moved by this heart-wrenching scene, I screamed. Honestly Kimberly Elise took the crown in this movie as the best actress. I was actually moved by her part. Finally there is a movie where the easy watering of her puppy-dog big, brown eyes might pay off. Each bruise and anguish was real as she communicated her emotions through tears and deep sobs (of course, what more can you expect from Kimberly Elise), crying for all black women who had ever known abuse. I even dared whisper to my mother that Elise’s role will make her Oscar-worthy.

As I said, I’ve never seen the play or read the book. Therefore I wasn’t convinced of the relevance of the Lady in Blue role played by Kerry Washington. I never thought I would say this about the ever-sexy Kerry Washington, but her part was absolutely forgettable. In fact, sometimes I forgot that she was even in the movie. In my Fiction workshop, I’ve learned to delete irrelevant characters. So had it been my script, I would’ve deleted Kerry Washington’s role or given it to a much better actress with whom an audience could identify. I felt nothing from her—not even in her seemingly perfunctory attempt to conceive.

I absolutely adored Loretta Devine’s role, but I felt that she always plays those high-pitched-big mama-wanna-date roles that evoke the sappy memories of “Waiting to Exhale”. In my opinion, the worst thing that could ever happen to an actor is to be type-casted.

Thandi Newton on the other hand gave her role as Lady in Orange the best shot. Never before had I seen Newton in such a raw, honest light. Even in her role as Beloved in the 1998 film based on Toni Morrison’s novel, Newton never sent so much shivers down my spine as she did with her schizophrenic rage in For Colored Girls. She plays a coke-addicted, sassy, street-smart waif who loves the feel of the warm bodies of men more than her own, but who holds a secret that only her psycho-religious mother, woman in White played by Whoopi Goldberg, knows too well.

Goldberg stretches herself beyond any roles she has ever played, literally transforming into a cult-following old woman who hoards boxes inside her cramped apartment (a metaphor for the mental/emotional baggage she carries) and who remains as a tyrant in the lives of her two very confused and hurting daughters. I said bravo to Whoopi whose saving grace was straying from acting for so long and sitting on The View for over two years. That way, audiences might have forgotten the other roles she ever played throughout her career to compare.

Lady in Yellow played by Anika Noni Rose was as easily forgettable—(except for that rape scene)—just as Lady in Blue (Kerry Washington). Not to mention Macy Gray, who I’m convinced played herself as an incoherent drunk, only occupied 5 seconds of the entire movie just to give Lady in Purple, Tessa Thompson an abortion.

Phylicia Rashad’s character was the rock of all the characters. A building manager of the apartment complex where all the characters either lived or passed through, she held the forte, always on the lookout. She watched from her apartment the revolving door of characters that exited and entered scenes, staggering up and down the stairs, banging on doors, or slamming them. For some reason this reminded me of the Women of Brewster’s Place—that 1989 movie starring Oprah Winfrey where the struggles of the characters happened behind closed doors where secrets eventually got leaked through cracks in the walls, under the door, and into the streets.

Overall, the movie would’ve paled as another tear-jerker that feeds off the plots of “Oprah Winfrey-Terry McMillan-esque” black women movies before its time such as The Color Purple, Women of Brewster’s Place, Beloved, Waiting to Exhale (pictured above). Perhaps if the movie was a bit longer than the 2.5 hours, How Stella Got her Groove Back would’ve probably made its way inside the plot too, throwing in another quintessential "DL brotha-grim-reaper" who would later break Stella’s heart after she gives him a greencard.

If it weren’t for the poetry, I would’ve classed this movie as clichéd. But given the depth and beauty of the poetic words laced with metaphors to life’s blessings and distresses as a woman of color, I was deeply moved by it—enough to make me want to buy the book—not the movie—just for those uplifting words.

Nicole © 2010

I spent my Thanksgiving marveling at my blessings...

2010-11-30T01:17:00.032+02:00

As I cleaned the turkey—(my second time doing so since my partner and I decided to add the big bird onto our culturally eclectic Thanksgiving menu)—a wave of gratitude washed over me. So many things had happened in the past year that I’m beyond thankful for. Thanksgiving for me has been devoid of its history. Instead, I focus on my blessings and share this with my family, my partner, and my close friends.

This year I was blessed to have all my family members visit from Jamaica to celebrate Thanksgiving with me. It was the best Thanksgiving treat that I’ve had since I learned how to roast a turkey (well with the help of my partner of course! If it was up to me alone, I would add some Jamaican curry powder or jerk-sauce to make it extra hot and spicy).

Anyway, I had a wonderful time with my family. My partner and I hosted them in our home and they were very gracious and accepting of her. This, to me, is a blessing given that we’ve come such a far way as a couple; and then to see my family once again embracing her as their own daughter, sister, granddaughter, cousin, and aunt is truly amazing. They met her earlier this year when I took her on a trip to Jamaica. However, on Thanksgiving they were in OUR home. Pictures of us sat in large frames that line the shelves and walls of our Brooklyn brownstone as my mother relaxed, smiling on the sofa next to my step-father who marveled at how happy we seemed in them. My very religious grandmother agreed.

Later that day the rest of my family came. We all sat in a circle and articulated what we were most grateful for. I told everyone that I was grateful for family, love, companionship, life,and of course the food!

Nicole © 2010

For the colored girl attempting a novel when the caffeine isn't enough...

2010-11-22T22:02:00.022+02:00

Thoughts, November 5, 2010

A novel is conceived five years before it’s born. That’s what I overheard a writer saying inside a Brooklyn coffee shop to another writer as I stared blindly at my computer screen with an empty mug in hand. We were all writers in there, typing furiously as if our lives depended on that one bestseller or that one story that would forever establish our last names on many a bookshelves and tongues like Baldwin, O’Conner, Wolfe, Kafka, Nabokov, Carver, Walker, Morrison, Danticat, Marshall…just to name a few. My novel loomed above my head like a cloud not fully developed. Perhaps if I fetched more coffee it would come to me like a vivid dream or light from an en-kindled bush outside, the one thing that got my attention as I searched for the first sentence out of thin air. The burning bush. The burning bush? I must have heard a writer next to me coughing this title into his cell phone to a poor listener to which he shot his ideas like aimless arrows.

I leaned back into my chair and surveyed the room dotted with ambition, allowing my own story to take form. The characters didn’t want to speak. Not yet. Not even to be coaxed by the soft instrumentals of Thelonious Monk or some Bob Marley. It must have been too early for them. I forgot they liked their cornmeal porridge and hard boiled eggs before they sit and have a chat with me, reveal to me their lives, and show me their faces, their memories, my memories. I must have had too many sips of wine last night. Perhaps their voices were blurred with the monotonous ones I listened to at a reading where cigarette smoke filled my lungs and suffocated me like a big bottom full of egotistical farts.

My own words stifle me in my sleep sometimes if I don’t write them down. But I would never dare say, go up to a podium and strangle other people with them at a reading if I don’t have to. Last night I was forced to look at myself in the mirror encased in smoke, cigarette buds laying in ash trays that collect nervous energy like pennies. When I came out as a writer, I never had a “look” in mind like some those people decked in vintage from head to toe as if their success as writers depend on their wardrobes. But who am I kidding? I love to play dress up too.

Anyway, I often thought a writer could be anyone whether or not we chain-smoked, listened to jazz, wore quirky outfits, or have lived in foreign lands that lend us stories to tell. Being a writer is a state of mind. So why was it then that at this one particular reading did I feel so displaced—my writerly instincts kicking into observation mode once I became an introvert stuck inside my third glass of wine? It was like coming out as gay a few years before only to stumble into a gay bar filled with pierced grizzly bears wearing leather. My first thought during both experiences was “This is not me”.

So there I was in the café the next day, fishing for my characters that were held hostage by an intoxicating waste of time. It must have been then at that reading the previous night, being exposed to fraudulent art in a cloud of second-hand smoke, that my stories crept up in the form of vomit and left. Either that or I’m still reeling from the shock of being subjected to other writers with nothing to say about anything yet might make a name for themselves with the right egos and connections for good measure---carving a hole inside the ozone layer and giving me lung cancer while at it. Besides, who wants to read stories for colored girls by colored girls if it has nothing to do with stereotypes? So there. My mind was playing tricks on me again. What am I saying? I ordered a second cup of coffee to trick my veins into thinking I was high on something resembling hope.

While sitting inside the café staring at the burning bush somewhere--must have been inside the depths of my imagination--I dreamed my story black like the coffee I sipped. I tuned out the other writers, their caffeinated fast typing on noisy keyboards and idea shooting over telephones, and tuned into myself. I even purged the memory of the night before, smoke-filled, artsy, and depressing. Ignited by the burning flame deep within, I wrote. I wrote to Thelonious Monk’s piano, urging me on, telling me that as a writer I have something to say, a voice to preserve. A novel is conceived five years before it’s born, they say. How about a novel is conceived when the right spirits align with thoughts and introspection, using one as a vessel to deliver them from silence?

And so it was. I began to write.

Nicole © 2010

"Sex Positive" IS the new black: A response to myself ...

2010-11-19T00:14:00.013+02:00

After writing my first blog on the term “Sex-Positive” and its misuse, I spoke to a few people about the term who positively identify as such. In fact, I felt compelled to do this in order to educate myself in the process. This was after I was told by a friend that I came off as “sex-phobic” in my previous blog. Me—a gender, sexuality & health researcher, who enjoys talking and writing about sex as much as I love the act itself. So I had to step back and assess why I was unable to understand the term “sex-positive”. After all, shouldn’t I know and appreciate this term in my advocacy work?

Through conversations I discovered that identifying as “sex-positive” isn’t an act per se, it’s more of a state of mind. In other words, people who identify as such aren’t necessarily engaging in wanton sexcapades with multiple partners as I had previously thought, but are open to any discourse pertaining to sex and sexuality. That’s me!

This makes much more sense and sounds a lot healthier. To engage in open discussions about sex and sexuality is the beginning of something fruitful in the control of the HIV/AIDS epidemic where secrecy, stigma, and shame (SSS) are top culprits in people engaging in risky behaviors behind closed doors.
I believe that we can have healthy conversations about sex without the shame that comes with disclosing certain information. In that case, I commend “sex-positive” persons who unpack knowledge by demystifying certain acts, including masturbation, S&M, penetration (whether vaginal or anal), oral, and other sexual acts that not many people know how to talk about (or even know about). By engaging in these healthy discussions, we begin to take the necessary precautions through communication.

Moreover, for many people it’s not easy to talk about sex. One would be surprised what people do behind closed doors but could never bring themselves to utter a word about it. We were taught never to “kiss and tell”, but how dangerous is that term when it comes to opening up our bedroom door for an educational discourse on sex and safety? Salt & Pepper sang about “Let’s about sex” for a reason. We need to start talking about it in order to debunk the myths, stigma, and secrecy surrounding it.

In fact, one of my many projects as a researcher is to get churches to start opening up conversations on the topic, especially around homosexuality and sexuality outside of marriage in order to get rid of the stigma and shame attached. This is after finding that people tend to engage in riskier behaviors in secrecy when they are told that they are wrong. This leads them to deny what they are doing, thus inciting them to ignore prevention messages which they think aren’t for them.

Therefore, after analyzing my conversations with other “sex-positive” individuals and getting rid of my own judgments or preconceived notions, I had to re-assess my thoughts about the term and what it really means. I realized that the term “sex-positive” is not a bad thing after all when used as a tool for empowerment and education. In fact, it has the ability to make the world a better and safer place with more people talking about sex rather than perceiving it as a dirty, secret act outside of the pearly white gates of marriage, which in itself, is just as ambiguous.

Nicole © 2010

"Sex Positive" is the new black?

2010-11-16T22:33:00.014+02:00

Perhaps I’m the strange one here, immersed into this eclectic urban realm where people merge under one sky, contained like a jar of jellybeans, some claiming to be "sex-positive". In 2010, the term "sex-positive" becomes ludicrously linked to queerness, worn by youngsters who claim such identity under the false assumption that their attraction to same-gender renders them sexually deviant. Many of them intellectualize sexual attraction to various individuals, which they claim should be acted upon rather than sticking to clichéd restraints of monogamy. However, I like to call this internalized homophobia where still, even the most educated folks are claiming "sex-positive" out of the notion that as LGBT individuals, our relationships either don't exist or aren't seen as worthy to nurture.

“You know artists,” said a young 20’ something woman at a talk back forum on our sexuality who chuckled at my observations, her silver bangles jingling as she took sips of her wine. “We always want to be unique, messing with our bodies like we do canvasses of art being led by our soul and emotions. But me being sex-positive is about feminism.” I still didn’t get it. Did she just say being sex-positive is a way to exercise feminism? Uhm, did she see the CDC's release of the HIV/AIDS statistics among African American women? So I asked, “But what about sexually transmitted infections? You are sex-positive, but are you safe?” She looked at me as if I had asked her to disclose her HIV status to the crowded room. Only recently had the term “sex-positive” become trendy, getting rid of the stigma attached to sleeping around. A euphemism stretched to cover the bullshit but not the stench.
I wouldn’t go as far as to challenge the morality of being “sex-positive”, but I do find it questionable, especially with the burgeoning statistics of sexually transmitted infections. Many persons who use the term “sex-positive” loosely do so in ignorance or in cosmopolitan settings where sex, like drugs and alcohol, becomes disposable. A combination of all four can be deadly given that the “sex-positive” individual won’t be as careful with protecting themselves against diseases when they are high, tipsy, or plain ignorant.

In all honesty, just to cut "sex-positives" a slack, New York City is a place where the young and free are also very lonely, some even desperate. Of course, the city becomes a playground for singles to explore each other in parks, between desolated isles in bookstores, in movie theaters, in museums, in front of American Apparel billboards if porn becomes too expensive to buy, in the small spaces of cramped apartments—anywhere that would give them the opportunity to physically connect with another human being after being isolated for days zipping through underground tunnels in a daze from one destination to the next trying to make a living.

Their “sex-positive” rendezvous is nothing but a post-college binge of careless debauchery, which might be the only way in which they feel in control. They begin to feel liberated and powerful with their bodies in a way that being a struggling artist, student, or young professional in New York City living in cramped spaces with roommates and eating ramen noodles for dinner can’t make them feel. In other words, sex becomes a coping mechanism.
One has to understand that identifying as "sex-positive" is a lot deeper than the false sense of liberation that it gives. It comes with ample communication with sexual partners, getting tested often, and developing a sense of self where you come to this decision knowing yourself and knowing that your queerness should not define you or give you an excuse to skid so far outside the norm that you forget your own susceptibility to diseases as a mortal. Being "sex-positive" may be synonymous with “free loving” in the 60’s, but not without the consequences of our times where HIV/AIDS and other STI’s are sitting right here in our backyard to contend with.

Nicole © 2010

The best revenge is living.

2010-11-14T18:41:00.007+02:00

After two years punctuated by abated breaths at possible sightings and things that I would have said had I had the opportunity, I finally saw her again. There were no awkward moments, no residues of anger or resentment, no rehearsed words of bitterness replayed in my mind, and no expectations of an apology. Just a simple hello and a conversation that flowed smoothly between us as if everything else that occurred in the past was nothing but a distant nightmare.

It feels great to forgive. It feels even more amazing to let go. What sense does it make to harbor feelings of resentment when it only depletes our energy? The time it takes to plot scenarios in my head of what I would’ve, could’ve, and should’ve said had I seen the person again, could be spent writing a potential bestselling novel. Even if the person still existed within my close network, it would still take too much energy to make up my mind to snub them or better yet, pretend to spill coffee or wine on an item of clothing that could’ve possibly been purchased at the dollar store.

Yes, I must admit that it does feel good to stomp on the persons that hurt me, but what do I gain from it? Given that I do have an audacious personality in which I often look down on the passive aggressive individuals with pity, I often react to insults or hurt done to me in a second, instantly lashing the perpetrators with my words, leaving them to bleed to death through the cracks of my mind that quickly bury them into satisfactory oblivion. This often puts me in a position of advocacy for others who do not have the courage to stand up for themselves. But very rarely do I congratulate myself after putting someone down who has hurt me. Many times the persons who do the hurting do not know what they did. In fact, perhaps it has been done to them so many times before, that they internalize it.

In lieu of the bullying incidents that have been on the news as of late, I think about how much hurt those bullies have suffered and internalized before hurting others. Most times the focus is usually on punishing them, but very little attention is paid to the situations or contexts in which those “bullies” have been living. In many cases, the “bullies” themselves have been victims of abuse or neglect at home. This undoubtedly puts a new spin on the ways in which bullying could be stopped or monitored in schools. As for the victims of those bullies, some are able to move past the attacks while others are emotionally crippled by it. For the latter, I would tell them to hold on and be strong because hurt people hurt others, and therefore the bullies’ actions towards them have nothing to do with them. In this blog, my aim is to show people that letting go is the best healing that could ever take place. Not that we have to justify what others did to us, but we learn to move past it, using our own strengths to overpower the negative impact certain scars left on our souls to bear. Moving past the hurt is the fist step to channeling our energy in the right things, say—being more creative, partaking in workshops to build certain skills, forming positive circles of friends and contacts, etc.—as opposed to ruminating on things done to us by certain individuals who have probably moved on with their lives.

Finally, I always believe that the best revenge is living. I learned a long time ago and was reminded recently that the universe has a sense of humor grounded in irony. The path to which it leads us might very well cross with that of the person who hurt us in the past. It is then that our growth is tested when the person, whose eyes might struggle to meet ours, may not apologize with words. However, in that moment without apology would be an acknowledgment that the universe has a way of subtly forcing closure in the most unexpected ways, like waves washing seaweeds and long lost items ashore which were thought to be buried at the bottom of the ocean.

It may be evident to the person in that instant that avoidance is a cowardice move on this unrehearsed stage of life. Or it may not. It may be evident to them how much we have changed and how great we look living life. Or it may not. A simple encounter with them, as in my case, may come and go as quickly as the rush of an autumn wind. It was during one of these fleeting conversations where the person appeared more human than my memory had sketched her out to be, that I quickly learned that revenge was no longer in my hands; it was given all along to something greater than me, something greater than the person who had hurt me, something greater than all of us. I was only happy in the end that I lived to see the uncanny way in which the universe works.

Nicole ©2010

Image isn't everything, living is...

2010-11-01T23:04:00.017+02:00

Just the other day it occurred to me that in a realm where image is everything, life still goes on regardless of what we wear. I never gave this much thought living in a happening place like Brooklyn where the sidewalk is everyone's personal runway.

So it's no surprise that on Saturday when I rose bright and early, eager to go apple picking, I was more eager to put on my nice fall blazer, new pair of blue jeans, mod-ruffled turtle neck, and a nice pair of fall boots. I would be the most fly apple picker in Princeton, New Jersey, I thought. But given that this was my first time going apple-picking, I had to know for sure what to wear. I logged onto About.com and read comments by people in my predicament of a fashion dilemma. I was instructed to wear the oldest pair of sneakers given the ample dirt paths on apple farms. Old sneakers?! In my mind, that spelled fashion doom. Who saves old pairs of sneakers for moments like these? All my shoes are good pairs, the rest are reserved for Salvation Army or the trash. Also to my chagrin, I read that plaid shirts rolled three-quarter of the way are the best to wear for apple picking. Plaid shirts?! Who do I look like, Dorothy? I scoffed at the idea. “Plaid is so 1995!” I said out loud as I clicked out of the link. So there went my blazer and turtle neck idea.

I started to panic, mentally assessing my closet for the best looking “farm girl” clothes I could pull off. My partner, a self-proclaimed tomboy, already had on her sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of timberland boots (she looks good in anything). Our good friend, Shay also had his sweatshirt, scarf, and a pair of Timberland boots as well. “Nicole, are you ready? Is that what you’re wearing?” They yelled in unison when they saw that I was still dressed like I was about to walk a fashion runway in Berlin and not apple picking. I had five minutes to pull off an outfit for the occasion. But then it occurred to me that the way I look wasn’t going to affect whether or not I have a good time. It’s the memories spent with the people I love that count. So I slipped into the first sweatshirt that I could find, a pair of jeans, and a pair of long Timberland boots. I gingerly descended the stairs, wondering if I should’ve stood my ground and worn my initial outfit. More than likely we were going to be the only Black people on the farm, I thought. So it only makes sense to look presentable as “representatives” of the race, right? Timberland boots were just too predictable.

But as soon as I entered the parking lot of the orchards, my feelings of fashion uncertainty were quickly erased. It was replaced with excitement. I noticed that half the people there didn’t care what I was wearing. It was all about picking apples and carving pumpkins. I even saw black families dressed in their sneakers, jeans and sweatshirts, carrying bags of apples they picked. I was ecstatic.
This made me wonder why I was so hung up on image. I thought back to my preoccupation with image. I could not recall one moment or situation in life where the clothes that I was wearing helped with my personal growth and development. Regardless of what I wear, the people who I've come to love and respect are more interested in my mind and what I have to put on the table as a student, employee, partner, sister, friend, or even mentor. Even if the attraction to an individual is solely based on image at first (which for me, has been the case over the years where people had expressed interest in me based on my looks), it gets old after a while. After a while, no matter how shallow a person appears to be, there is going to be a deeper yearning for substance in their connection to another person. Moreover, in the realm of a professional atmosphere where first impressions last, it is important to dress to impress for interviews; however wearing a Brooks Brothers suit as opposed to a suit from Marshalls isn’t going to make up for a lack of experience or competence.

So now that I was comfortable in my apple picking outfit, I reached the farthest branches and picked succulent apples sparkling red in the sun. I didn’t mind my Timberland boots getting dirtied. I rolled my sleeves and picked some more apples, snapping pictures while at it. My partner and I had an apple picking contest, seeing who can pick the biggest apples. Shay also got into the mix, reaching for apples and scribbling down recipes for his next apple pie dish. After picking apples at the orchard we walked the rest of the farm. I overheard people who wore dressy shoes complaining that they should’ve worn more comfortable shoes that they wouldn’t mind getting dirtied. I smiled to myself when I heard this, knowing that I nearly fell into such predicament. Had I not forgotten about image, I would’ve been robbed of this memorable experience. The day turned out to be one of the best days I’d ever had. Image may be everything, but it certainly cannot beat living.

Nicole © 2010

Monogamy, the visually impaired, and sperm shopping

2010-10-21T23:31:00.004+02:00

So I’ve been getting questions from friends about monogamy and whether or not it renders one visually impaired to other attractive individuals when they’re in a relationship. My answer to that question is often a chuckle. Such question is analogous to one asking if I notice the color blue when purple is really my favorite color. But whether or not blue is for me when it comes onto wardrobe combos, skin tone, etc, is a different story. Similarly, attractive individuals aren’t automatically tucked away in a couple’s blind spot. There are going to be the Angela Bassettes, Suzan-Lori Parks, Nikki Minajs, Kerry Washingtons, and Sanaa Lathans who breeze in and out of our consciousness like yesterday’s wind, sending fleeting shivers to places reserved for the affections of only one.

In fact, my partner and I often joke about crushes. How could we not? It’s fun. As long as both of us understand that there is a line that shouldn’t be crossed. And after all, we can’t go on forever playing blind in each other’s presence, especially now that we’ve begun to identify the baby-daddy for our son/daughter where one criterion is looks: dark skin, handsome, lean, and tall (with ample records of a clean mental health track, no jail time, and highly educated, of course). Although there are certain sperm banks that will tell us the physical make-up, history, and IQ of our baby’s father, sometimes it’s nice to sit at a park and identify the handsome chocolate fellow, about 5’8 or taller with thick, healthy dreadlocks down his back, lean with well-defined features that seem prominent even from afar with a camera slung around his neck or a guitar slung over his broad shoulders.

“How would you feel about giving us your sperm, sir? Two cups each.” I’d imagine asking the fellow. “No, no…don’t walk away, Sir. We’re not crazy. We just want to know what our child would be like.”

But of course, even in 2010, two women walking up to a random guy asking him for sperm is not quite the norm. Therefore, most times we leave the scene, imagining the phantom of an unborn child moving between us with bushy dreadlocks.

It doesn’t hurt to dream, right? I remembered when I saw Spike Lee’s movie “She Hates me” in 2002 and felt so repulsed by the concept of lesbians being so desperate for sperm from an eligible bachelor that they were willing to have sex with him and drop ten grand on top of that. But I’ve come to realize that not everyone is willing to go through sperm banks and then the arduous process of In Vitro-fertilization. Not to mention the lengthy process of adoption. In fact, isn’t it easier to just have sex and get it over with? However for me and my partner—unlike unlike the lesbians in Spike Lee’s movie—“the natural way” is certainly not an option, which leaves us with “the expensive way”.

With “the expensive way” we don’t have the luxury of cruising parks, museums, jazz concerts, and art openings with our shopping carts, checking the price tags and stock of the men who we deem baby-daddy-worthy with barcodes that tell their family history, degrees, allergic reactions, mental disposition, and IQ. Even if he agrees to tag along with us to the sperm bank and sign his sperm over to us, it may be more expensive than doing it anonymously. For in exchange for his services, he may want an insane sum of money to pay child support to the other twenty children he probably fathered…for free.

So yes, there is definitely a lot to consider when it comes to identifying eligible baby-daddies. The courting process may be a little rusty and unconventional. Instead of a date, there is an interview. Instead of wine, there is tea (we want to make sure that he is alert while making this decision). Instead of expectations, there is a contract waiving his rights as a parent. Instead of him forking the bill, we write him a check. Instead of a kiss goodbye, we hand him a cup and he hands us best wishes. And there, in the nebulous realm of this selection process and fertilization, begins another journey where we’re destined to meet a rambunctious little dreadlocked stranger, boy or girl, along the way. Only this time, we’ll dare to fall madly in love with this stranger…

Nicole © 2010

Fall Harvest

2010-10-11T20:14:00.015+02:00

It’s fall, my favorite season of the year…a time to pour myself a warm cup of apple cider, use the rest of the apples to make pies, invite friends over to celebrate our harvest, gather pumpkins on our doorsteps and watch the golden leaves fall. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am in the fall. For some reason, I become energized by warm colors and private house potlucks where good friends brew our favorite teas. New York City becoming sepia under this spectacular season makes me want to snap pictures to capture its tale of romance.

However, more special to me this season is the sentiments it brings. I was walking down a street populated by bright orange pumpkins this weekend and remembered how every fall I evolve into a new person walking the streets with new eyes, and new pair of boots (sometimes old), crunching sticks and stones on familiar paths, nonetheless. I remembered exactly where I was many a autumn before this one and saw the gradual change. Emerging from each summer, I'm ripened by the sun, ready to be picked and seasoned with grace. Fall is a time of harvest where I reap the fruits of my labor. I allow myself to look back into the fields and see trails of my footprints in the soil moistened by sweat and tears, worthwhile nonetheless.

This is one of those years where I look back as I pass by Brooklyn brownstones decked in Halloween decorations, city parks crowned with turning leaves, and downtown Manhattan ridden with newcomers seeking freedom in the city. I remembered the significance of these places to my growth years before, and startled by the changes, not in the scenery, but within myself. Now I’m chasing my dreams, heading down a one-way street with the windows rolled down, eager to get out and reap my harvest.

Nicole © 2010

The power of letting go

2010-10-05T21:39:00.011+02:00

I threw away a bunch of clothes this weekend. With trash bag in hand, I stuffed each and every one of them inside, blind to the colors, texture, smell, and sentiments attached to them. My closet was flooded with clothes that seemed to multiply over the years, some of which were acquired from fashion shows I did when I first moved to the city, t-shirts stolen (one given) from ex-girlfriends, a couture dress that I purchased with my first real paycheck, a tank top that I used to wear like forty times in one month because I loved it so much.

So in my current liberated state, I was immediately repulsed by the number of years and sentiments attached to some of the clothes I had. In my mind, I desired to be detached from those years. I made up my mind to get rid of them, and just like that I saw myself moving quickly as I tossed the years in the bag, one by one, mechanically moving like a robot. As I did this, I felt a physical weight of lift from my shoulders. No longer am I the woman I was four years ago, five years ago, six years ago. By the time I was done, I was free. Yes, it was certainly easier to move around my bedroom, but it was also easier to make space for the new. Isn’t that what life is all about—doing away with the old in order to accommodate the new?
I was faced with this test again when a sales representative at Carol’s Daughter flagship store in Brooklyn told me that they were discontinuing my favorite scent. If you know me well, you’d know what that scent is. I’ve been wearing it every day for the past four years. It became my signature scent, inciting my coworkers, family, friends, and partner alike to sniff my presence. So when the sales representative, a Boris Cudjoe look-a-like (I’m not kidding) who knew me well because of my loyalty to Miss Carol’s Daughter broke the news, he was very gentle. At first I wasn’t sure why he was suggesting that I try other scents.

“But why do I need other scents, J?” I asked him when he gave me one too many scents to try. I saw him let out a weary sigh and held his texturized head full of wavy coils down as if he were struggling with something that he needed to tell me. “What’s wrong?” I asked, growing fearful. He looked like he was going to break some bad news about my mother or something. “We’ll be discontinuing your scent soon,” he finally said. I looked at him in shock, the past four years of my life flashing across his now sympathetic, handsome face. The workers there all knew that was MY scent at Carol’s Daughter. How could they betray me? I thought. “It wasn’t making sales like the others,” the sales rep said as if he read my thoughts and needed to make an excuse. “Oh,” I simply replied. How could they lack sales when they have me? I thought. But then again, one person is not enough. I thought about ways that I could’ve purchased my scent in bulk before it goes out of stock, but something told me that maybe this was a sign. It was time. I needed to let go of the old and try something new. After all, this is a new chapter. “Let me see that other one then,” I told him.

An acquaintance of mine, YK, in her blog, wrote that she’s practicing letting go by giving away one possession each day of the year. I agree with her that letting go is definitely the most liberating feeling one could ever experience. I won’t go as far as to give something away each day like YK, but letting go is something that I found myself doing this weekend. It’s not that I resent where I came from, neither do I resent my journey and the things I’ve picked up along the way; it’s just that possessions, like skin, should shed sometimes in order for new growth to occur.

Nicole © 2010

Why they won't come out

2010-10-04T18:27:00.010+02:00

For weeks I’ve been mum, observing the backlash Nikki Minaj has been getting about her “flip-flop” stories about her said bisexuality. I also found the Bishop Eddie Long story to be disturbing in many ways. However, although these two stories are quite upsetting to me being an LGBT advocate, my annoyance comes from the black community in general. One has to understand that this is bigger than Nikki Minaj, Bishop Eddie Long, Queen Latifah, Da Brat, Will Smith, Jada, Tyler Perry, and the rest of them who fear that coming out could possibly ruin their careers, submit them to exile whether from the church, the music industry, or Hollywood. To be honest, our culture does not permit people to be open with their sexuality. Ridden with the poisonous opiate of religion, we submit our brothers and sisters to silent suffering, locking them inside closets where we could care less if they rot in denial…our denial.
How dare we criticize the likes of Nikki Minaj without addressing this bigger issue? Yes, she, like Lady Gaga, has the potential to give us visibility as queer folks of color, but you have to understand, she might not want to be the sacrificial lamb. In fact, if our people weren’t so stuck on seeking Jesus Christ in other human beings, we’d know that no sane person who desire food, shelter, and clothing would sacrifice a career for anyone unless if they have the support to do so. As a lesbian writer, I can be a voice for others because technically, I can say what I want without kissing dotted lines on lucrative contracts to keep my mouth shut goodbye. You see, Nikki Minaj is now signed to Pdiddy’s label. Does anyone know what goes on behind the scenes of the recording industry when sales are more important than ones personal life? Isn’t that why stars hire Public Relations professionals---so that they can uphold the fantasy/illusion that labels and agencies want fans to believe in order to bolster sales any which way they can? Money talks, and if money isn’t stuffed behind a good coming out story, then consider it unimportant.
Same goes for Tyler Perry whose audience is primarily black church folk. Do you think those folks are ready to hear Tyler Perry say he has desire for another man? If you are gay, think back to your own Bible thumping relatives and remember the time when you came out to them (I’m assuming many of you gay folks have already done so). Hopefully most of you were adults and had the ability to take care of yourselves before coming out; but for the majority of us, we got the silent treatment. *cricket, cricket*. Heard that? Top that off with “Don’t you dare come back here until you change. I know the good Lord will change you. Until then, get the hell out. Hallelujerrrr. Amen.”

Now think about it if these are the same church folks who had helped Tyler Perry to build an empire. Can you imagine how much he would lose if he comes out? Can you now see why he might be a bit hesitant? Yes it is very painful to watch, but just look around you. There are more people living inside closets than you know, or wish to know. Although it is the saddest, most unfair decision one could ever make, it happens. I have friends who work in corporate America who are only gay after 11pm and on weekends because coming out to their coworkers isn’t an option. They would tell me that being black is already enough to sink their ship, so being gay could bury them under sand. I believe the same goes for Tyler Perry and black celebrities. To most of them, being black is enough to contend with. If they have to choose between success and being true to themselves, it’s like choosing between severing a limb or plucking an eye ball. People have to understand that people’s passions are also a part of them, and if it means that these entertainers should sacrifice doing what they love to set a part of them free to the public, then we all should wish them god speed.
Until the black community embraces homosexuality, can people be true to themselves. White celebrities like Ellen, Rosie, Gaga, and Angelina Jolie can dare come out and be OK, but for a black person in Hollywood to come out when there are no jobs for them to begin with, it can be detrimental. I can’t begin to imagine what it would be like if they are ostracized from their own community who, by the way, contributes to half the box office sales. Wanda Sykes did it, but she was a D-list actress and a comedian. Her fan base is considered as grown folks with an appetite for expletives and dirty jokes (not that church folks are not this way too). So of course, they would still appreciate “crazy ole Wanda” and love her. But would it be the same for Queen Latifah? How about Usher or Jamie Foxx? I don’t think so.

Additionally, with Bishop Eddie Long’s story now out in the open like a bad liberating fart permeating the air with the stifling truth, hopefully we can now have a healthy discourse about this topic. Hopefully the church is now recognizing the error of their ways when they fail to acknowledge the fact that homosexuality exists under their roof, behind the pulpit, and should be addressed with love and acceptance, not hate. But perhaps I’m being too optimistic here. After decades of snuggling within the comfort of silence, I’m not too certain that the church would blink twice about addressing the issue.
Rev Eddie Long (recently accused of luring boys into having sex with him)

Moreover, I’m not making any excuse for what Eddie Long did to those boys. What he did was awful given that he abused his power with these poor boys (now men). However, I believe that Eddie Long himself is a victim. He is a victim of silence; he is a victim of the stigma that exists in the church; he is a victim of fear, clutching the “holy” cloth and cloaking himself with authority that he, like many others, thought would suppress these urges and in turn, impose this guilt on others.

So before you begin to shake your heads wondering when are these people in the church and the public eye going to come out of their diamond encrusted closets consider the community they’re coming from. Consider the backlash they may get, and understand their fear. You remember this too, I’m sure. Not many of us can walk too proudly, patting our chest for being “out” without remembering what we had been through to get where we are. Unlike the stars, we had the luxury of mourning lost ties in private. They have public endorsements and fans to consider while church clergy have the congregation, their 10 percent tithes, and personal worship of them to consider (all while they suffer on their own cross of denial).
Yes, it would be nice if black public figures can use their power to change people’s minds and increase visibility of black queer folks, but mental oppression is a funny thing. It tends to stick with us through life, crippling us for the most part. Even the black lgbt community has its hang-ups on commitment with religion still ingrained in the back of our minds, inciting guilt and internalized homophobia. Therefore, if celebrities and church clergy come out, it has to be a personal decision on their terms only. But until then, we need to work on our community.

Nicole © 2010

Life in NYC is about change

2010-09-27T23:33:00.020+02:00

Life is transient in New York City. The only thing that remains constant here, like anywhere else, is change. From dusk till dawn, 365 days/year, season to season, life zips by like the express trains we rely on. Each stop represents a new friendship, a new relationship, new neighborhood cafes, new roommates, new jobs, new characters that enter and exit our lives.

Today I reminisced the times spent with people who are now gone. I reminisce the places where these times were spent, which are now closed . Perhaps it's the rain that stirs up these feelings of nostalgia that resonate like the smell of dampened earth beneath fallen leaves. I remember places like The Den, Harlem Tea Room, Catty Shack, Grand Café, Solomon's Porch, Brook's Valley restaurant, and the dance party at the former Red Bamboo restaurant now known as something else. I once heard somewhere that one becomes a true New Yorker when they can walk down a street and name several places that used to be there that are no longer there. I found myself now doing so, surprised that I’ve been here this long to see the comings and goings of people and places. How fast the city changes. How fast we change.
Another chapter has closed and another one started. This time I’m in control of my life here in this wild city. I hold my dreams close to my chest, like a mother holds her first born, finally claiming them. Who knew I would ever feel most balanced, loved, and accomplished four years later? Looking back, I remembered four years ago how much I wanted to be where I am today. But I still cherish those times when New York City was a maze, a time when flashing lights were blinding and distracting, a time when my feet hurt from pounding concrete aimlessly in search of something while balancing my weight on heels to impress. Still, I wanted stability. Still I knew that the people I meet will one day move away, finding stability elsewhere. Still I knew that the places where I once relied on for familiarity and chit-chats with friends would be renovated or torn down to be built back up into something new...a post office, a pharmacy, a bodega.
So today I say goodbye to yet another friend. We arrived in NYC the same year and became fast friends. This month she will leave for bigger and better things in LA. The wind knew where we would all end up after four years as it stirred our lives into perspective, brought us together, challenged us to grow, and become wizened New Yorkers on a mission to shine our lights brighter than the brightest of them all. My remaining friends and I will hold our glasses of wine up in salute to the friends who’ve moved on. We will all giggle at the irony of this because, except for the ones who worked endless hours in corporate America, when we started out in this city, all we could afford was rum and coke. So cheers to growth, a sense of direction, fabulousness, success, and most importantly, change!

Nicole © 2010

I missed the memo that says men are God's gift...

2010-09-21T22:11:00.023+02:00

I must have missed the memo...you know the memo that women get in bright pink letters labeled "GIRL" at birth? In these letters, there must have been lines in between that read, "Praise all men and your days will be fulfilling. Nurture their egos and you'll reap the benefits". Or maybe I read it in Sunday school at age nine when my female teacher asked me to recite out loud Ephisians 5, verse 22-23: "Women, submit to your husbands as to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior."

You see, not even when I witnessed women doing this, did it ever click to me that I should follow suit. Like an alien who just landed from Venus, I'm beginning to observe, wide-eyed and incredulous, the commitment women put into building the egos of this endangered species, the great creation of "our savior". "It is our duty," I hear mothers say about sons who they overfed with confidence, which later becomes arrogance. "He's a man, he should be raised to be the breadwinner."

Breadwinner? Hmm. Sounds familiar. Wasn't Adam given dominion over the earth? According to Genesis, I wouldn't be present on earth if it weren't for a rib taken from Adam. In fact, no one ever mentioned women giving birth to mankind until Eve allegedly fucked up (it had to be up, or else Cain and Able wouldn't have been born). Anyway, from birth men are raised to "have dominion". If they falter, it's beaten into them. Their scars serve as reminders that they always have to muscle their way through life. Isn't that what masculinity is all about? It's a category in which little boys are whipped into submission, broken into out of fear, remain branded out of pride.

So nearly three decade later I'm in my late twenties and noticed something very odd about my peers. I noticed that the men, more than the women, are constantly getting great critiques for their work. Not only that. I noticed that it's the men who get called on as exceptional, eagerly taking the compliments as if they expected it...As if it were their birthright to be lauded and fawned over. After all, what would become of an eagle with broken wings? In any setting, everyone leans in to hear what the men have to say, being careful not to break their fragile egos with nonchalance. If that happens, some women would spend time, like doting mothers, gently blowing parts bruised by criticisms. Because really, the socialized breadwinners are expected to be more cogent and astute, right? So this means that they are right all the time, right? And if they are right all the time, then this means that they are the ones to hire, promote, marry, fuck, and given significant raises, right? Their own mothers said so. There are God's gift. According to the New York Times article that I read this morning, in Afghanistan, a place where sons are highly valued, girls are dressed as boys by their mothers to spare the family of shame. Isn't that something?

And so what does this mean? Apparently the memo that I didn't get says it all. Maybe if I was a better student in Sunday school I would've aced this one. When I came out as a woman who loves women, I was accused of not being a "good Christian". Now I see where the discrepancy lies. For how could I not love a man "that way"? Aren't they supposed to be the ultimate trophies of every woman's life?

The message is even more clear on the bookshelves where I see more male authors than women authors; it's clear in religion, depicting men as leaders, faithful, and holy; it's clear in all the movies that cater to the fantasies of men; it's clear in the universities where there are more tenured male professors than female professors; it's clear in the way many women become complacent with this reality because noticing such inequality could deter their success in finding husbands (and oh, God (presumably a man) forbid what the mother in-laws would say if you dare criticize their precious sons).

So there. I'm lost. Someone fax me the memo real quick so that I can set my mind at ease and not feel like I'm being blasphemous. Actually, don't bother. Because I may have daughter one day and I would love for her to believe she can accomplish anything, even in male dominated fields. I may also have a son one day, and I will mold him to defy those debilitating expectations of masculinity.

Nicole © 2010

I'm starting a biking revolution: Black ladies grab your bikes!

2010-09-20T21:57:00.010+02:00

So I've officially added writer/biker to my resume (along with theater lover, wine connoisseur, and Brooklyn mistress). This weekend I was able to ride from the heart of Brooklyn to Governors Island. If you saw two black women on bicycles, one chocolate and one caramel with dreadlocks covered by colorful helmets, decked in shorts, t-shirt, and converse all-stars sneakers, then that was probably me and my partner. We rode for four hours, enjoying the freedom of the wind. It wasn't surprising to me that everywhere we went, people stared in awe. I wasn't sure if it was because we were black women on bikes (are we so rare? Don't black women ride bikes too?); or if it was because of our beauty (I know we are knock-outs); or maybe because our bikes are so cool, not to mention our totally rad helmets. Whatever it was, it turned heads.

Beep! Beep! Now hold your horns folks, we're coming through!

My partner suggested that we start a biking revolution for black women. After seeing the looks of awe we got from people who probably didn't expect us to ride or even OWN bikes, my partner stood firm in her belief that we can change this with our presence on the road. So ladies, if you have a bike do me a favor and RIDE IT! You don't have to be quirky black girls like us to dare venture outside and enjoy your neighborhood while you get a great work out this way. Give people something to look at, and talk about, and eventually they'll get used to it. Ride your bikes like you got attitude, spunk, and a lust for life!

Nicole

An epiphany on class

2010-09-15T01:45:00.039+02:00

I discovered something about myself after writing my blog about the homogeneity of Miss Jamaica Universes over the years. I had commented on class differences and noticed that there were people who brought up the fact that there is a huge educational and opportunity disparity in Jamaica, particularly for lower income families. Of course, it is immediately assumed that the under-served are in fact of a darker hue, hence their ineligibility to represent Jamaica on an international level.

It struck me as odd that majority of the people who noted this disparity on my blog in the comments section described themselves as dark skin (many contended that education and exposure were factors for darker skin people given the lack of opportunity there). Immediately I wondered about this general assumption, literally stepping back as I sifted through my own past. Never before had I considered myself as one of the outliers; that in fact, as a dark skin person, I was among the few who had opportunities. In other words, I was ignorant of my privilege.
This epiphany of my privilege crept up out of nowhere, ambushing me like light at the end of a dark tunnel. I began to notice that at social gatherings with other Jamaicans in professional circles, we would laugh and joke with each other in broken patois for a jocular effect, prominently interspersed with the proper Queen’s English that our elite high schools had successfully drilled in us as teenagers. We always knew the same people and still recalled similar memories set above a certain province in Kingston, close to the sprawling hills of Upper St Andrew. If we didn’t know each other by names, we knew the parents or the faces of our peers who we saw at extracurricular activities and extra lessons to which our parents drove us in their cars, protecting us from the nuisance of taking a city bus.

In my effort to expose class differences in Jamaica, I found that I first have to acknowledge my truth. I found that subconsciously, I've imposed such measures whenever I meet other Jamaicans by first asking “Where did you go to high school?” This question has a lot of weight. This was brought to my attention after an event I attended with a friend in the city. My friend, who is very observant, was incredulous. After all these years she says, people were coming up to each other, discussing high school. "Why is this?" She asks when we were able to be alone. When I told her about the significance of the high school you went to in Jamaica, she replies, "The questions you ask each other about school in these social settings are analogous to elite circles asking whether or not you are "one of them" by asking last name, a distinction of pedigree". She was right.
One must know that Jamaican culture is more than the food, music, arts, and people; it’s also about the high school you went to. Why? Because the Jamaican high school you went to can: 1) Tell someone about your social class (whether you had the right resources to pass the common entrance to get into one of the most prominent high schools) and later, college; 2) Tell your brilliance and sportsmanship due to the emphasis that our culture puts on education and boys & girls track and field champs (the biggest sports event at Stadium); 3)Tell how immersed you are in Jamaican culture since living your teenage years in Jamaica is different from living your teenage years anywhere else given that those are the formative years when we begin to form our identity as Jamaicans. But most importantly, the high school you went to determines your so-called "destiny".

At ten years old, our destinies are pre-determined like the indelible ink used to publish our names in the Jamaican Gleaner every June, specifying whether or not we pass the common Entrance (now called the GSAT)to one of the elite high schools. If a student passes, it calls for a great celebration. If a student fails, it is highly stigmatized. They hang their heads in shame, knowing that they would be sent to a secondary high school, a place that prepares them to be the next handy man/woman, janitor, or lunch lady. In other words, secondary high school students rarely get the exposure and educational opportunities that their peers in the elite high schools get. For example, I was exposed to college recruiters from Cornell, Vassar, Middlebury, University of the West Indies, Harvard, NYU, Columbia, and other colleges that sought students from elite high schools in Jamaica, whereas my peers in the secondary high school never knew this opportunity existed at all. Even if they knew, there were no affordable resources set up to prepare these students (usually from working class families) for SAT prep or award them scholarships given the assumed poor academic performance of these schools in the exams given by the Caribbean Examination Council (CXC).

But something is terribly wrong with this picture. Something extremely classist and unfair is happening in this picture. Classism was a seed planted in our slave minds, making us aspire to be like our British Masters, trying our hardest to enroll in the elite schools they created, which does a good job of upholding the class divide. This has changed a little in late 90's given the push for the working class to attend these elite schools. But for the kids in the 70's and 80's, prior to the late Micheal Manley announcing that everyone deserves equal rights to attend these schools, this was very real. However, despite the terrible reality of this classist situation, the kids like myself who benefit from the elite high schools capitalize off our experience, wearing our alumni status with great pride and honor.

Therefore, in social circles in New York, California, Georgia, London, France, Switzerland, et cetera, where I meet other Jamaicans, the first question we ask is “where did you go to school”. Unfortunately, this (and politics) determines the direction of the conversation.
This approach excludes many people. Not only does it immediately shame the Jamaicans who attended the secondary schools or non-prominent high schools, but it also excludes the Jamaicans who never attended school in Jamaica. In other words, the question immediately distinguishes class and forms a barrier that gives our brothers and sisters the royal British snub that we had internalized from our colonizers, a social handicap bequeathed through generations.

Although there is comfort in reminiscing about school days, the Jamaican motto "Out of many one people" is about inclusion, not exclusion.
I was quickly reminded, like I always have been, of the sacrifices my parents made so that I could have the experiences that I had. But by no means should I feel superior to those who never had the same opportunities I had.

Nicole © 2010

Life is a Marathon. Run it.

2010-09-14T21:14:00.011+02:00

I’m thinking about running a marathon. This spur of the moment idea was once a seed planted inside my mind for five years now. I’ve always wanted to run a marathon just to see what it’s like to touch the finish line, arms extended, heart racing, sweat running down my face like exuberant tears, and muscles pleasantly aching.

I’ve never been the athletic type. Once I came last in a race in middle school, breathing like a sweating hog down the field in the hot Caribbean sun while my faster classmates galloped ahead and left me behind, heaving in their dust. I picked up dancing instead. I was never the track & field star champion my father was, yet for some reason as a toddler I would always try to out-run him. “Ah…this one is gonna be a track star like her daddy,” my father used to say long before I discovered that back then, I’d rather toss my newly pressed hair and from the sidelines, watch the girls’ track & field team practice at my high school.

So recently I received an email announcing a NYC marathon to raise funds for a children Cancer fund. My fingers toyed with the delete button as I read the email. Hmm, I thought. Me running a marathon? I recalled conversations I’ve had with friends who have run marathons before. They never had a bad thing to say about trying.
In fact, my concern has little to do with the actual marathon itself. It has to do more with my contemplation, which is an anomaly in itself. My sudden burst of confidence must have come from this year’s accomplishments. Everything that I’ve once thought impossible, I did. I’m in a graduate program for writing (a very competitive application process), I traveled to Europe (something that wasn’t planned for this year but happened anyway), I went back home to Jamaica for the first time in 5 years and introduced my partner to my family (something that I never thought possible), I rode a bike all over NYC and Washington DC this summer (I used to be afraid of riding anywhere outside of a park), I got engaged, and I’m almost published.
Therefore, despite the fact that one has to train extensively for a marathon, a part of me feels ready to take on any challenge that comes my way; a part of me knows that although I’m not a runner, I’ve always been on my mark, getting ready to sprint ahead, focused on the finish line yet never forgetting to admire the scenery or the cool breeze tugging lightly at my hair on my way; a part of me already knows that I’m a winner regardless of what I do and where I go; a part of me knows that daddy bequeathed his survival of the fittest genes to me, and although my speed still doesn’t match his (even in his mid-50’s), he has always allowed me to win, letting me know that getting to the finish line is more important than the time it takes to get there.

Nicole © 2010

I'm a Brooklyn Biker

2010-09-09T15:09:00.018+02:00

I'm officially a Brooklyn biker. My partner and I have been inducted into Brooklyn's bike culture with our new bicycles that we ride through the streets, zipping pass brownstones, bodegas, and narrow one way blocks on a high. I used to be afraid of riding in the streets alongside traffic, but now I'm unstoppable, managing to ride over my fear, pedaling at a fast pace to get to my destination on my bike. My partner pedals in front, usually leading the way with her pro high speed bike. Our helmets glisten in the sun as Brooklyn's streets transform into a vast plain, becoming hills and valleys. The urban concrete begins to bloom into flowers and tall grasses rustling in the wind, a river nearby. On my bike I'm a butterfly.
In fifteen minutes, we can ride from Bedstuy to Grand Army Plaza, fill our baskets with Farmer's market goodies then ride back. In less than ten minutes we can ride to Fort Greene, have brunch then venture across the Brooklyn Bridge to Soho in twenty minutes. Our bikes take us everywhere, allowing us the privilege of being mobile pedestrians. Like our fellow Brooklyn bikers, we rule the streets.

Gentrified Brooklyn already has a very artsy, urban-hippie culture filled with organic food eaters, writers, vegans, dogs, baby strollers, cafes, joggers, mothers and fathers with babies tied to their chests with tie-dyed cloths. But one thing we all share is an appreciation for our borough.

So there's nothing better, I believe, than exploring my beloved borough with my partner on our bikes. And besides, the workout is phenomenal!

Nicole © 2010

Bees and the likelihood of winning a Pulitzier

2010-09-09T03:23:00.018+02:00

I got swarmed by bees today. Any ordinary person would've let this story go, perhaps tucking it away inside their memory decks as a funny anecdote over drinks or brunch, but I, with my over-analytical self, found it serendipitous. Well, sort of.
I was sitting alone under a tree on campus gathering my "writer" thoughts as I poured soy sauce over my sushi rolls. A story came and almost went. I desperately searched for a napkin, a piece of paper, anything to pull the story out of my head. But when I couldn't find anything, I found the pouring of soy sauce redemptive. The promise of a Pulitzer prize winning piece lurked within the dark liquid that soon covered the food, browning the rice, drowning my annoyance. Although my actions were mundane, it was somewhat meditative, soothing even. I was still trying to lay out a plot when I saw the first bee. I thought nothing of it at first, shrugging at the audacity of a stray bee. But then another one came, then another, and another. Eventually I got up, slow at first, trying not to panic. Was this real or a figment of my buzzing imagination? In a matter of seconds my food was covered by them. Gigantic brown bees with swollen bellies. I fled. My life is worth more than $15 of raw fish.

But really now...How many people get swarmed by bees on their first day of school, an event which is supposed to mark the beginning of a new chapter? More importantly, how many people get swarmed as they contemplate plots to their stories while pouring soy sauce all over their sushi rolls? My mother says it's luck and money (but really...do I look like Alice Walker or Elizabeth Gilbert?), others say it's prosperity and hope (hmm...writer and prosperity seem like a trick combination in the analogy section of the GRE's). Hope sounds more like it. "The next story is gonna be a winner!" A friend exclaimed excitedly as I told her what happened with the bees.

In many different cultures bees are a symbol of hope and diligence. Once upon a time bees and their honey were regarded as inspirational for the poets and even philosophers like Plato. The belief was that the gods sent bees to the lips of those whom they inspired.

So, does this mean that the gods sent those bees to inspire the story which was lodged inside my head like hardened stool? On my way home on the train the story finally came loose, relieving me of my frustration. However, my gratitude (echoed by loud hunger pangs in the middle of my first workshop of the semester) didn't come from the questionable fact of my creative anointment, but from the fact that by the grace of God, Allah, Yahweh, Jehovah, and other names the supreme being, ruler of the universe has been called, I wasn't stung.

Nicole © 2010

From independent to humble: I'm a grad student again.

2010-09-02T20:02:00.023+02:00

I'm a graduate student again. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I am screaming "Are you out of your mind?!" As I maneuvered my way through campus in the sweltering heat during orientation week, burning in the hot, seemingly admonishing sun, a thought came to me: "It's not too late to turn back. You can get your money back before add/drop period ends. The registrar's office is that way".

It's been four years since I graduated with my first Master's degree. Back then, I merely floated to my classes and internships with no vision whatsoever of my goals after graduation. I was 23 and clueless with ambition, nonetheless. All I knew was that after I earned the degree, it would give my parents something to brag about and enable me to start a decent career with a good salary. I even had the audacity and naivete to believe that my degrees from the most reputable schools alone could get me through doors.

Fast forward to Fall 2010. I'm grown, almost 30 (two more years). With experience buckled under my belt and the courage and ability to pursue something more meaningful to me (not that my first degree wasn't meaningful), I returned to school.

This time around, the first thing I did was research the faculty and electives that would enable me to hone skills I want to develop. I was even more aggressive in finding out necessary information than the younger grad students, thus becoming that older graduate student I used to hate back in the day. You know the ones who learned from experience and living in “the real world” that graduate school is not about making friends like undergrad? (it's more about making functional and meaningful acquaintances than becoming "Miss/Mr. Popular". Although you may get one or two good friends for life if you're lucky).

I became the type of grad student who knows that grad school is all about the grind, the gritted teeth even on weekends with one eye in the books (in my case, it’d be writing and producing), and the other eye on opportunities to network and physically move mountains. I learned from my first experience that it’s not the degree or the name of the school that sells a person, it’s the person who sells him/herself. I also learned that in the blink of an eye, 2 years will come and go. So time has to be utilized mindfully and efficiently.
So with all the excitement of starting this new chapter, the reality begins to weigh heavily. I begin to question whether or not I'm game for the rat race for a second time. I begin to miss my independence on days when I'm not at work feeling competent and in control of everything. I begin to wonder if I'll be able to still afford my glasses of red wine, Starbucks lattes, and little vacations to different places during the year with my partner(without worrying about cutting into classes). I begin to miss my cozy nest of comfort, flirting with thoughts of complacency.

During orientation week, I begin to resent the sneering sun, looking on as if to say "I told you so" as I walk that long walk to campus feeling like a melting snail, susceptible to being squashed into a brown, sticky puddle of mush under giant feet.

But then there's another thought, a much calmer, mature one that blows with a surprisingly cool wind beneath the shade. It's a voice of reasoning, which reminds me that this is what I want. I'm going back to school this time with new eyes, a new mindset, and new goals. This time around I'm older, wiser, more ambitious, and more courageous than before, acting on guts, thought, intention, and most importantly, passion rather than perceived expectations. Phyllis Wheatley, the first black woman in Britain to have a book published.

Nicole © 2010

Miss Jamaica Universe--sisters or coincidental resemblance?

2010-08-25T20:19:00.048+02:00

On Monday I tuned in to the annual Miss Universe beauty pageant held in Nevada. I was just in time to see that Miss Jamaica, Yendi Phillips, made it to the top ten. “She looks like any other uptown light skin girl in Jamaica,” my partner, who has been to Jamaica with me and seen the people, exclaimed, clearly perturbed by the aesthetic Jamaica often feels most comfortable representing. For years Miss Jamaica Universe bore the same cookie cutter look—light brown skin, long hair—straight or wavy, swimmers body, leggy, such aesthetics bequeathed so lovingly from their White, Indian, Chinese, Lebanese half, and worshiped by Kinsley Cooper, Pulse Modeling Agency (now Pulse Investments Limited).
What a typical Miss Jamaica looks like

I think Jamaica has some of the most beautiful women regardless of skin tone. But what about the dark brown Black sisters whose aesthetic makes up 80 percent of the predominantly Afro-Caribbean population? How come in all the 24 years that Jamaica entered the Miss Universe competition, only one dark skin girl (Zahra Redwood, 2007) was chosen to represent the nation? The other one who came close was April Jackson in 2008, but she looks more Indian/coolie with European fine features and long, straight hair. Also, I'm not even considering the fact that Zahra Redwood herself is still an outlier, given that she’s Rastafarian, which is less than one eighth of the Jamaican population.
Zahra Redwood, 2007
April Jackson, 2008

So where are the other girls we see walking through Cross Roads, Half-WAY Tree, and Down Town, Kingston on any given day? Where are the girls who may not own a car or live on the hill, but who have no qualms hopping on a mini-van heading to Portmore, Spanish Town, Clarendon, St. Mary, St. Thomas, Trelawney? Where are the girls from the working class families who wield street smarts (as well as book smarts) like how their ancestor, Nanny of the Maroons, wielded a machete in the cane fields? Where are those girls? I am dark skin and I went to St Andrew High, went to an Ivy-League University, and have met other dark skin Jamaican women who have done the same, and who are strikingly beautiful. Would they have gotten a chance with their non-European features? Even South Africa had a bleach blond representing them, and other countries also had the lightest and brightest representations as if the organizers and sponsors of the competition would rather such aesthetic on the world's stage.
A smiling Jamaican girl, Miss Jamaica Universe 20??

Sandra Foster, Kimberly Mais, Nicole Haughton, Christine Straw, just to name a few, all look the same to me. After a while, their faces start to merge into one lighter camouflage of the next. Perhaps they were cousins, perhaps they were lucky enough to get some of that prized tainted blood from Massah or his wife (because really, I used to think that it’s luck that makes a Jamaican girl mixed-race, the ideal pedigree, the passport to Jamaican high society, the Miss Jamaica Universe title). Oh how naïve I used to be, but was I?
Kimberly Mais, 1991
Christine Straw, 2004
Christine Wright, 2006
Sandra Foster, 1989
Sanya Hughes 2002
Carolyn Yapp, 2009
Reigning Beauty, Yendi Phllips
Yendi Phllips, 2010

So when my partner said what she said, I stepped back and acknowledged the fact that she was right, Yendi Phillips looks oddly familiar. Of course I’m proud of her for reaching so far and putting our country on the map. Who wouldn't be? In fact, Yendi Phillips is the best Miss Jamaica Universe out of the whole homogeneous bunch from 1986-2010. But it’s that lingering feeling that I had, which kept me contemplating why Jamaica constantly chooses her face to put us on maps. Yes, Yendi deserves this win, but I'm sure other girls with similar looks shouldn't only stand a chance because of their lighter shade. What is this saying to that little dark skin girl in East Kingston? What happens to this little dark skin girl when she looks at commercials on tv, and calendars?
Light Trinidadian model hired to represent "the real Jamaica" for tourists.

Let me tell you what happens to the little dark girl. She grows up, internalizing it all. She attends the most prominent high school in Jamaica (Immaculate? St Andrew? Campion?), and sees the popular girls. Wants to be them for they look like Miss Jamaica Universe. She seeks a lighter, “better” half hoping to lighten her offspring with hope. She becomes pre-occupied with skin tones and running away from the sun. Unable to cope with what she feels in her own country, she runs away and never looks back. When she finally accepts her beauty and life for what it is and falls in love with her country again, a pageant comes on tv and she watches. She’s proud. Her country is in the top ten finalists. A thought jolts her out of her protective bubble. Nothing has changed. “Where are the girls from your country who look like you?”

But she remains calm, cool and collected. She was already prepared for this. She already knows her country's taste. She already knows the only way she can represent her country is by being who she is, and continue to shine her light for the world to see... that she doesn’t need to wear a stash and a bikini to show her worth.

Nicole © 2010

Valium is my favorite color?

2010-08-23T22:17:00.030+02:00

This weekend I saw the Pulitzer prize winning Broadway musical "Next to Normal" with my partner. It was one of the best plays I've seen since Fela (well, there was "Finian's Rainbow", "RagTimes", and "Memphis" too!). Next to Normal appealed to me even more because it was able to utilize art to bring an issue such as mental health illness to light (#utilizing art for advocacy). The musical was deeply moving and highly entertaining at the same time, fusing comedy with drama as it portrays a mother's struggle with bipolar disorder as she tries her best to raise her daughter and be the perfect wife. The musical also depicts the family's struggle with coming to terms/dealing with the mother's bipolar disorder.
More people struggle with mental illness than we know. In fact, mental illness is usually undiagnosed, especially in communities of color where there's stigma attached to mental health seeking. I've known people who use the church to cope, thinking that God will work a miracle on their schizophrenic paranoia of being beguiled by the devil or worse, hearing God whisper to them telling them what to do.

For those who have diagnosed mental illness, their conditions are dealt with in private. Very rarely do I come across someone admitting to gaining weight because of an anti-depressant pill, or oversleeping because of a Valium prescription that they need for sleep due to anxiety issues or hallucinations. In fact, mental illness is often concealed in shame, masked by drug use, obsession, Religion, or alcohol.

This weekend, I realized that even I was guilty of attaching stigma to mental illness. Out of spontaneity and playfulness I bought a t-shirt from the Next to Normal musical that says "Valium is my favorite color". Within hours I suffered buyers remorse, wondering if people would think that I'm crazy for wearing a t-shirt that says valium is my favorite color.

Valium. Isn't that drug for insomniacs or people with "weird" hallucinations? Out of ignorance, I wondered this out loud, looking at my reflection in the mirror. "Oh Christ!" I thought. "What have I done?!"
With some coaxing from my partner who told me that people won't notice the words on the t-shirt, I wore the t-shirt the next day around my very diverse neighborhood in Brooklyn to the grocery store. To my horror, people narrowed their eyes as they processed the words on my t-shirt. When they saw me watching them, they smiled, some more questioning than others. Perhaps this was all in my imagination, but I sure was not imagining the eyes that darted across my chest before looking at me, perhaps comparing my appearance to the words on my t-shirt ("Oh, that's so sad. That pretty girl needs Valium like the crazies.") My paranoid mind tried to read their thoughts.

This was a lesson for me because honestly, after two years of being interested in mental health in the black community, particularly among women and LGBT, and writing about it in my Public Health graduate research thesis, I had no idea that I too attached a negative connotation to mental illness--- That I too shun it like most people, willing to avert my eyes and turn the other way, distancing myself with suspicion and alarm.
I flushed with mild embarrassment from wearing just one stupid t-shirt, so I can't begin to imagine what it's like for someone who admits to needing Prozac (or one of those other drugs in the highly expensive Pfizer family), or who admits having a mental illness, or who admits being a close family member of someone with a mental illness. Openly admitting those two situations for many people is like wearing that t-shirt even on days when they don't feel like it. Unlike me, they can't take it off, toss it in the laundry, and swear never to wear it again. They have to live with it each and every day in a world that continues to look at them as odd.

That's what the musical "Next to Normal" is about. It forces the audience to open our eyes and see mental illness for what it is, a struggle like any other struggle that needs to be managed in the best way possible....with love and lots of support.

What I learned: Sometimes the people who try hard to appear sane are the most insane, because life isn't perfect, and "normal" doesn't exist unless we pretend.

Nicole © 2010

Braggarts are really sad, insecure people

2010-08-20T23:22:00.000+02:00

I have never been the type to write blogs, listing all the details of my goals, blessings, and accomplishments like I would a grocery list with check marks. Blogs with well written thoughts about positive experiences that occur in one's life, and their introspection and learning experiences that followed, I can understand. But blogs that sound like someone rattling off a bunch of ego-feeding rubbish, is exactly that, rubbish. Perhaps the writer in me would rather read a blog with a deeper, more poetic form of introspection that brings insight rather than the mundane details of a rather boring event bolstered by abundant ego.

As much as I would love to brag about starting a fabulous MFA writing program in the fall and talk more about my very lovely summer with all the perks of great opportunities, I realize that bragging to those who don't know anything about me is a bit ostentatious. In my opinion, blogs should have a purpose. In my mind's eye, a braggart reminds me of that chatty person we all hate. The one who says things that aren't true, but who says them anyway to feel superior. (I remembered a woman my mother knew at my high school. She always wore a wig that didn't fit and make-up that looked like a cracked mask, showing up at every PTA meeting at my school to to brag to anyone in earshot about her children's acceptance into Ivy-League schools (when really, we found out that her children were barely passing through community college).

So I keep certain information on the low most times unless if there is a purpose to share. I love pictures and I love to share insight and experiences I had that are new and exciting to me, but which have taught me a lesson or two. I would rather shy away from the detailed grocery list posts with check marks all over them. People who insist on posting those are the ones who I read as desperately seeking affirmation to their so-called happiness. They want others to see their accomplishments because they themselves are unable to believe it unless if someone graces them with a "Good for you!" comment.

Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that braggarts are really sad, insecure people hoping to be affirmed by others. Most times their joy comes from others' perceived unhappiness or envy, for in their delusional minds, only they can shine...even if their insides are filled with darkness.

Nicole © 2010

Thought of the day

2010-08-20T21:17:00.003+02:00

BE still. Then move forward with enthusiasm. Your life is waiting!

how do I become still?

by flowing with the river

Nicole

Journey through Brooklyn on my fourth Anniversary in NYC

2010-08-19T16:46:00.016+02:00

While on the B41 bus heading down Flatbush Avenue, I couldn't help but to think how long I've spent running away from "home". Even the Caribbean enclaves here in NYC had become somewhat foreign to me, a representation of what I've managed to shun for years.

Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn used to be a distant place, a foreigner's land, a place for me to get my hair done then hop on the train back to Fort Greene where I wined and dined friends and my partner. I would leave behind, on Flatbush Avenue, the cadence of patois and creole swirling in the streets, the bass of reggae and dancehall beats pulsating through car radios, the steel pan rhythm of soca reminding one of gyrating hips and costumes at carnival, the colorful flags at the entrance of local businesses or dangling from windows and fire escapes, the smell of food marinating in curry spices, the women kimboed, handsome, and proud, the men flirtatious, quick-witted, and pretty, and the children, ones bridging cultural gaps with their American tongue and Caribbean ways.

All this I would leave behind when I come off at the Atlantic Avenue station and walk down Hansen Place toward Lafayette Avenue where I am immediately immersed in the gentrified yet fashionable realm of Fort Greene with its quaint brownstones, coffee shops, and boutiques. In Fort Greene, I felt like I had arrived since it made it easy for me to be who I thought I was; while on Flatbush Avenue, I was a girl from Jamaica.

Unknown to me at the time, my identity bounded me to particular places in Brooklyn. I felt too chained to the "Educated-young-trendy-professional-brown-lesbian" label to dare venture away from places that affirmed this. However, it wasn't until I reconciled my identity with my culture, finally realizing that I can be whoever I want to be without forgetting my roots, that I began to come back home.

One gets tired after running away for so long, and I believe that age has a lot to do with this transition given that eventually, we let go and come to terms with being who we are. This growth intensified my yearning to strip naked and be me, forgetting about image and forgetting about networking camouflaged as friendships that I was once comfortable with accepting. I came to terms with the fact that I was denying a huge part of myself and I needed desperately to re-establish this connection in order to proceed.

So in May after returning from a long overdue trip to Jamaica after a five year hiatus, I began to ache for the side of me that was missing. I returned to New York homesick and in need of that strong connection that I felt when I returned home. Given that I had just gotten back from the trip and would rather not use all my vacation time, one morning I took the B41 bus down Flatbush Avenue. Although it was just a regular bus ride, I felt like I was being transported forward then back through memory, feelings, emotions. The dollar vans swerved in and out of lanes down Flatbush, filling me with nostalgia making me think of Cross Roads or Half-Way Tree, Kingston on any given day.

"Where have I been all this time?", I thought. "And why did it take me so long to embrace this side of Brooklyn?" I wondered this as I observed the beautiful brown people in the crowded streets speaking in my accent. By the end of that journey on the B41 bus, my first time in my four years living in Brooklyn, I turned the page and started my new chapter there, right on Flatbush Avenue.

Nicole © 2010

Crossing over

2010-08-16T18:43:00.004+02:00

Young Sankofa by Keith Island (www.mitchie.com)

Sometimes letting go is the best thing to do. But how does one move on from a chapter that was too good to be true? After remembering how hard it was to achieve it, it becomes hard to readily give it up and make way for another person to claim it. As the other chapter awaits, my fingers remain along the creased edges of the previous one, contemplating whether or not I shall move forward or remain. If only I can flip the page effortlessly forgetting, anticipating the next. The nest I created is too secure, too comfortable to leave all the way as I prepare for the next phase. But how do I write, filling the blank pages of the new chapter when the old is still very much open? How does one rewrite the same exquisite chapter without being redundant? As I contemplate this, I recall the Sankofa symbol, my favorite which I shall one day have tattooed on my wrists. It means you learn from the past, taking those lessons with you into your present and future. Therefore, perhaps each chapter is a compliment of the other, perhaps I need them to co-exist in order to make sense of it all. For every book needs more than one chapters, each allowing the story to come to life and walk among humans, whole.

Nicole © 2010

Eat Pray Love for those with only a metrocard and money for rent.

2010-08-16T01:52:00.019+02:00

In light of this Eat Pray Love success story of a woman traveling the world to find herself, I began to think about the average Jacqueline who lives in Brooklyn, has a 9-5, and can only venture to Little Italy rather than book a ticket to Italy on spur of the moment to "find herself" since half her pay check goes to rent, bills, and the $89 monthly metro card, which will soon be raised to $101.

What a travesty! Not because the monthly metrocard will be raised to $101, but because this means that for a regular person who is not Elizabeth Gilbert, living in New York City trapped in a life that demands their bills to be paid is like a marriage that we can't run away to an Ashram in India to ruminate over the loss and ways to come to terms with forgiving ourselves for not wanting to pay. Worse yet, how unfortunate it is for a regular woman to walk away from a relationship (even if it happens to be from an overpriced hairdressing parlor in Harlem that butchered her hair) and not have 365 days to get over it in three exotic countries, one of which she gets a fairytale romance? Oh what privilege! Life would be better if we all could take this adventure to heal ourselves or take a breather, right?

Well, given that well over 50 percent of the population aren't on the same level as Elizabeth Gilbert (especially in this recession), it would be lovely to walk away from the movie or the book with a tangible way of "finding ourselves" and “finding God” without feeling that we have to jet to Italy, India, and Bali.

But on a more serious level, does finding peace and a relationship with God means forging a relationship with American Airlines and American Express? Many people still have this notion that venturing to another culture is THE way to arrive at self-actualization. Is it because they always choose third world countries to visit in order to be reminded of their privilege and how much they have as they sit inside their five star hotels and air-conditioned villas, far from the "real people"?
Arriving at self-actualization is more than the "trendy" location and stamps on your passport, it's about introspection. It's about opening up your eyes, your ears, and your heart to the people around you, your surroundings. It's about going into an experience, mindfully savoring each moment...even if it's a trip across the Brooklyn Bridge, time spent at a café, or a cab ride from 59th street to 125th street.

All the travel in the world can certainly guarantee an eclectic collage of memories and experiences, but having the ability to select your thoughts and see God within yourself and in others, no matter where you are, is priceless. Who knows what vessels God will use to speak? Your American Express card doesn’t have to be that vessel.

Therefore, when I get the question "How do you connect with Elizabeth Gilbert, a privilege woman with the ability to do such extensive travel, take from other people's culture, and not run out of cash?" I respond how I responded to myself three years ago when I passed over the book with those same questions. The first thing I do is assess my own situation and come to terms with the fact that I'm not Elizabeth Gilbert.

I realized that the point of the book is not to marvel at how ostentatious this character is in her travels, but the lessons she learned which can be applied to everyday situations, and relate to everyone who is ready to face themselves with such open honesty.
In my opinion, spiritual transformation is about attitude, not financial ability. One doesn't even have to go to church to find it.

Traveling. If one has the ability to afford retreats and extensive travel to Ashrams all over the world like Elizabeth Gilbert, then good for them. But for the average Janice with an overpriced three family walk-up apartment scrunched in one of New York City's boroughs, getting away to seek a spiritual connection with God can mean taking a walk in the park among trees, listening to the birds chatter in the morning just as the moon makes way for the sun. If she finds that the buildings are too high (as in Manhattan), blocking the sun and the moon, there are no parks nearby, and the chirping of the birds are drowned out by the omnipresent soprano of NYC’s sirens, then take a trip to one of the 1700 parks in NYC or move to Queens.

Another way to heighten introspection is to write reflective thoughts in a journal while on the subway, practice being in the moment at all times (even on the toilet, as one of my friends admitted that she does), and not think about the past or the future or your to-do list, take time to learn about people---that old woman on the stoop of that brownstone around the corner may have something to tell you that you ought to hear in that moment; that man in the bodega with the cane may not seem like an intellectual or even coherent, but his tales might be golden; that crazy woman on the subway may be mumbling to herself, but if you listen closely, it could be your next book. As I said, who knows what vessel God will use to reach you?

So no need for a plane ticket to India if your metrocard is all you can afford for now. Just stay true to yourself and your budget. God will find a way to get through to you...you just have to be ready to receive it and believe it no matter where you are.

Nicole © 2010

Eat Pray Love

2010-08-15T15:27:00.010+02:00

I finally saw the highly anticipated Eat Pray Love yesterday. As promised, the movie, like the book, took me on a spiritual journey. I would advise reading the book before seeing the movie since the movie unintentionally caters to only those who have read the book and could fill in the blanks where the movie left off. Julia Roberts plays Elizabeth Gilbert, a woman who, after filing for a divorce from a stagnant marriage, plunged into the heart of the universe to find herself. Her narrative on this solo journey is ridden with questions about life and love and self and God.

A desperate prayer to God on the floor of her bathroom, asking Him to tell her what to do after years of feeling trapped in her marriage then a futile rebound love affair, was answered in a year long trip to Italy, India, and Indonesia. On this journey, Elizabeth met people who helped with her transformation and her quest to allow herself to let go and let be.

There were parts in the movie that moved me to tears. (I won't give too much away if you haven't read the book of seen the movie. But all I'll say here is Richard from Texas). The most memorable and important characters to pay attention to if you haven't read the book is Richard from Texas, Ketut, and Wayan (the woman with the daughter, Tuti). I'll leave you to decide which character speaks the most to your journey since as individuals, we're operating on our own timing where growth is concerned. For Elizabeth, each person she came in contact with played a significant role in her journey and left movie goers with "ah-ha" moments, which resonated in the theater after the words of wisdom sunk in.

You'll learn (if you haven't done so already) that God speaks to us through people and experiences. Many of us sit still to listen for a tiny voice, or perhaps a booming voice like the one that spoke to Moses in the burning bush. But the voice of God is much simpler and unassuming. God can speak to you through your conscience, your thoughts, your encounters with individuals (who by the way, aren't coincidences, but catalysts of growth), and experiences. Because God is you.

This is why it was so important for Elizabeth to forgive herself, because by forgiving herself, she opens up herself to the universe which allows her to tap into her inner strength and peace and the ability to love herself, love God, then love others.

In my personal journey, I've learned this. I learned that life is what I make it, and by believing in the universe and the God inside me, I become master of my own destiny. In the meantime, we shall Eat (symbolic of living, laughing, & gaining knowledge from our experiences), and Pray (always find time to communicate with God). And finally, Love, which will find us when we learn to love and forgive ourselves. Because God is Love.

Nicole © 2010

What women with balls can teach us...

2010-08-13T18:15:00.023+02:00

People aren't used women comfortable in displaying confidence. As much as I'd like to put the blame on "people"---mere invisible shadows of a culpable chorus---I have to admit that I was one of those people although I display the same traits. I hardly see it, but when I do, I'm in awe of it.

However, I wasn't faced with the importance of this trait until I sat in a women's circle listening to other women tell their stories.

So here I was in this sister circle. At first, I imagined the women in the circle to be timid (or was it cautious?), the way women often seem in the midst of strangers they hardly know; polite, as a way to appear less intimidating in order for others to feel more comfortable, or perhaps feel even better about themselves (for we tend to be more merciful than we should to the egos of others); uncertain, because although we know the answer, saying it all at once could be too egotistical like our male counterparts. Even the lesbians among us, though not looking for husbands, still have innate tendencies to step back, and stalk away from showing up the male ego.

But during this sisters circle, in walked a woman who brought the wind with each stride, flying like a regal scarf carelessly wrapped around her neck. She made no apologies for being late, and immediately asked the hostess what she missed, loudly and gracefully putting away her pocketbook. She smiled at the other women in the circle, not in a way that says "Please like me, for I'm a good, harmless person," but in a way that seemed to demand every undivided attention in the room. "I'm here," her pearly white smile announced. "And whether you like me or not, that's your problem."

I was in awe of this woman. Even the slight hint of her perfume demanded a secret moment of admiration, the way a wine connoisseur would pause, close his eyes, and smell the wine, before tasting it, swirling the liquid on the roof of his mouth with his tongue before swallowing appreciatively. The other women in the circle who also watched in awe and what seemed like mild irritability ("Oh! The audacity of that woman, striding in here like she owns the universe!")were instructed to introduce themselves, stating something unique and worth sharing.

I started out by saying that I'm a writer. I scanned the brown and pink faces in the room, not looking at anyone in particular. In that moment, I felt strangely foolish talking about myself. I knew that I was socialized to shy away from such habit. But it's a part of life, I told myself breathing evenly as if the eyes on me were leeches sucking my blood, my ability to breath. We have to introduce who we are to the world or else who will introduce us? In my head there was a mental timer telling me when to stop talking. Who cares what I had achieved or what I've done? I hate bragging, which is why interviews used to be so hard for me too. Bragging. Ugh! How egotistical. How desperate. How insensitive. How sordid. How..."Thanks Nicole." The voice of the moderator interrupted my thoughts and before I knew it, my five minutes to shine was up.
I could've said more, but my pride got the best of me (or was it pride?). The woman who strolled in late began her narrative with ease. She took deep breaths between sentences, and looked up at the ceiling as she gathered her lofty thoughts before looking everyone straight in the eyes. She went on to talk about everything she's ever done and will do, not once making any attempt to check if she's going over her five minutes. Everyone listened attentively to her speak. In my mind, I wondered if like me, they too thought she was talking too much about herself. She sounded so sure about herself, so shamelessly sure.

I imagined that if she didn't have a dress on, she would've sunk into her seat and grab her balls with legs ajar like a jock. She reminded me of a man, or how I perceive a man (not all) to be: So sure, so arrogant, so egotistical, so unapologetic in the way they reveal their knowledge or accomplishments or lack thereof. But there was something odd and strangely appealing about this woman. I loved it. I fell in love with it. I fell in love with this woman's sense of self. This was a woman who knew her worth and wasn't afraid to show it, even if it might make others look bad. She's the type of woman, I assume, who could sit among men and beat them at their game of show and tell. She's the type of woman who perhaps loves a good debate, even with the man or woman she's courting, not caring if she intimidates them. She's the type of woman who isn't afraid that she'd be called a "bitch" for asserting herself and for feeling entitled.
In that moment as she spoke, my resentment toward her turned into something else, a burst of burgeoning affection and gratitude. I was grateful for her ability to show me that in this world, women have to be strong and fearless to win this game. Self-promotion isn't a bad thing. It only serves as a platform to be heard, respected, and taken seriously. After all, only the fittest will survive.

Nicole © 2010

Eat, Pray, Love and the role it played in my journey

2010-08-13T04:15:00.014+02:00

Eat, pray, love is coming out this weekend and I'm beyond excited. Finally, the book that changed my life has made it to the big screen starring my favorite actress, Julia Roberts as Elizabeth Gilbert. I remembered the first time I laid eyes on the book. I was clutching a cup of grande "dirty" soy chai latte with mitten-clad hands at the Barnes & Nobles Starbucks in Union Square. I was recently unemployed and the New Year was only nine hours away, threatening like the gray sky, but promising like the brilliant glittering colors of the holiday season that 2007 would soon leave behind. I was with a friend who at the time, was a recently enlightened Buddhist and yoga fanatic. She slipped me the book and told me that I'd find it uplifting. At first I wondered what was so "uplifting" or interesting about a recently divorced white woman with enough privilege to spend a year traveling from Italy to India to Indonesia without getting fired (could i have her job?) while still having extra pocket change for food. Great food.

I remembered promising my friend that I would read it. Sure enough, the book sat untouched. If it weren't for boredom while riding the subway, I would have missed out on this life changing experience. The book surpassed my expectation, trapping me for hours at a time between its pages. Each paragraph was a revelation. Epiphanies took flight all around, bursting like miniature stars as I pocketed each word of wisdom. The self-reflective words spoke truth and honesty, making it easy for me to identify with Elizabeth Gilbert. Not only was I in for a treat, taking mental escapades to India, eating pizza and drinking wine in Italy, and meditating in Indonesia, but I also learned to let go and let be. The biggest message, for me, was to live and let live, live and let God.
Elizabeth's journey was a way for her to let go of the resentment she felt for her ex-husband and finally realizing that happiness comes when one lets go of internal resides of past hurt/resentment/mistakes/self-loathing. What initially started out as an escape for Elizabeth, turned into a spiritual journey that taught her more than she anticipated.

My journey began while reading this book. I was able to reflect, taking the book with me everywhere like a Bible. More than church, this book became my saving grace, my baptismal force, my personal pastor ministering in a modest $15.00 bendable cover, encouraging me to seize the moment, seize life, let go, let love, and pray.

Eat,Pray,Love changed my life. And this weekend, I'm looking forward to re-live this change and share the experience with those who never got a chance to read this life-altering book.

Nicole © 2010

Blessed from God's bosom to the mouths of others...

2010-08-11T19:08:00.003+02:00

Sometimes we forget our blessings until someone reminds us. I received an email last night from a long time acquaintance after a long, depressing day at work. I haven’t seen her in person in four years. It was close to midnight when I had sunken into the couch and decided to read the email, surprised that she remembered me. I remembered the last time we spoke, I was a graduate student preparing to start a life in NYC and she was already established in her career and opted to help me to jump start mine. We lost touch after I got settled in my new city.

I was quickly immersed in all the distractions: the gigs I picked up along the way in the name of survival, the clubs where I would run into her on occasion, given our love for House Music and similar circles of gay acquaintances. But the only thing passed between us then was a simple, heartfelt hello and a “How are you?”---A question that I used to avoid like the plague, because really, at the time I didn’t know what “OK” meant in this lonely concrete jungle that I gingerly began to call home. But somehow I survived. Somehow I’d overcome.

“I remember connecting with you back when you were about to leave Michigan,” she says, “now you are a true Brooklyn diva living a fabulous life and about to do tha damn thang!”

“Living the fabulous life,” she says. A rush of emotions surged through me and tears filled my eyes. Someone else saw what I didn’t see, or rather what I had buried with pride. How quickly we forget. In that moment, I was humbled. God has a way of reminding us of our blessings. It wasn’t a coincidence that this epiphany struck when I was feeling at my lowest after a long day that made me doubt myself, made me question.

In the darkness, my friend’s words stood out on the brightness of the screen, reminding me of how far I’ve come, “doing tha damn thang”. I remembered the struggle, remembered the chipped ego, the broken heart, the mistakes, the pockets full of lint, the naiveté, the inexperience, the desperation, the friends lost and found, the search for stability, the pleas with God, the joy of finally finding my place in New York, love, the joy of finding me. I remember.

In that moment as I stared at the screen, a timely reminder, I whispered “Thank you”.

Nicole © 2010

What do you think about prop 8 being overturned?

2010-08-05T17:25:00.016+02:00

I jumped for joy without thought, hugging the air like a full bosom woman, lifting her up, and kissing her on the lips. Finally, gays are given the right to marry in California. It means that other states cannot discriminate in a similar way on the federal level, and it also means that soon my fiancé and I could move in that direction, leaping.

Marriage. The very word is a conundrum in itself because too often, people fail to know what marriage really is about. Straight people (and some gay people) roll their eyes at us, wondering why we want this right. In my opinion, even if marriage is seen as the shabbiest deal on earth, I still want the right to choose. I want to be given that option, and it is my right as a person to have that option.

Marriage, to me, is more than the parade in front of family and friends, publicly declaring everlasting love and privately co-signing on mortgages and health insurance. Not many examples of marriage has been set, particularly in the black community where still, broken homes are run by single mothers. Many black gays and lesbians are still dealing with internal issues like internalized homophobia, sparked by criticisms from the church (a rock in the black community) to even conceive the idea of marriage. They often resort to maladaptive coping mechanisms (i.e. drugs, alcohol, etc), which usually set them back in more ways than one. So where do we turn for support? For my fiancé and me, we turn to other gay couples who have marriage on their radar or who have already jumped the broom. As we plan our wedding, we seek to learn more, not only about the institution of marriage, but the technical aspects as well. We listen to married couples share their stories and note that it takes work. Lots and lots of work. And yes, LOVE too.

Moreover, unlike the fairytales that most little girls grow up on, happy ever afters only occur when a couple defines their own marriage and work hard at it. So, it’s obvious to me and my partner that marriage is not something to jump into, and certainly, it isn’t something to do just because we can. We’re doing it because we’re ready.
With California overturning prop 8, it means that people are coming to terms with the fact that our relationships as gays and lesbians are valid. For us, this is not a black or white issue, simply because there are many black gay and lesbian couples outside the urban circle (yes, they exist) who have the desire to get married too. Recently my partner and I attended the engagement party of a beautiful lesbian couple who plan on marrying this fall in my partner’s hometown in Philadelphia. I also know other black couples who have already tied the knot. Among them is Wanda Sykes, and author Cheril N. Clarke whose wedding photographs of her and her lovely wife in their beautiful white gowns took my breath away. We also sought some wedding planning advice from another black lesbian couple who recently got married back in the fall.

I’ve decided that what we need in our community are examples of positive relationships to show people that yes, we’ve come very far from the struggles of Audre Lorde who eloquently expressed her need for change and the visibility of black gay women who love each other when she was alive, living as a “sister outsider”. Times have changed, and as black gays and lesbians, there’s no better advocacy than living our lives to inspire others, and helping to nurture love and support in our community.

Nicole © 2010

What touched me today

2010-08-04T16:11:00.005+02:00

A stranger walked up to me and my partner in Washington Square Park in the midst of an outdoor impromptu concert and handed us a note. The note read: "Your love matters too. You're such a beautiful couple". Touched and amazed by this stranger's courage to approach us with such a wonderful and heartfelt note, we gave him a smile. In that moment, all we could do was smile since the gratitude in our hearts was so great. Our eyes would've probably flooded with tears had our lips muttered anything other than a brief "Thank you", cautioned by our New York City armor of protection. Whatever it was that inspired him to scribble this note, carefully fold it, and hand it to us, must have been great. A whisper from angels above perhaps, reminding us that in a world so hostile and crazy, good people still exist. The stranger saw how genuine our love is for each other and reached out. Before we could finish reading the entire note, he disappeared. His head full of bouncing blond curls faded into the crowd like the sun that was beginning to set, his blue(or was it green?)t-shirt merged with the others; but the kindness in his eyes and his smile were still bright in our memory, and his gesture forever inscribed in our hearts.

Nicole © 2010

Inception is poetry

2010-08-03T22:18:00.029+02:00

I saw the movie Inception this weekend and was blown away by how true it is when we finally wrap our minds around the concept of discerning what's real and what's not. Each day we live our lives, sometime conscious of the truth and our own reality, while other times we're simply in denial, or worse, delusional. I've had points in my life when I've fallen into a deep slumber, closing my eyes to what's real as I entertain dreams, sometimes giving people the benefit of the doubt because I often see their possibilities as masquerades defying gravity in a parade of sheep. There are times when rude awakenings are just what we need to stop the nonsense of prolonging dreams, hypnotized like zombies by desires or dreams that may not be our destiny.
Art by Salvador Dali

After seeing the movie Inception, I walked out of the theater feeling like I'd just come from a spiritual retreat, rejuvenated and nourished. My mind felt like it took lapses inside a maze for 190 minutes in the dark. Inception gave me more than entertainment, it gave me food for thought. I nibbled on the concept of illusion. As human beings, we shape our lives, fashioning it to our liking based on what we believe to be true. Many of us go on for years playing roles we practice or roles we were told to play, not stopping to wonder whose dream we're living.

"When I'm awake, i don't know if I'm truly awake or if I'm still dreaming..." This is the premise in which the movie Inception is based. For years I've hummed this tune to myself, unable to recall the name of the band/artist I heard singing it on MTV in 1996. I was 14. I went as far as to google the lyrics, coming up with nothing in the search results. It's as if the band/artist didn't exist, yet I remembered the video so clearly of a man who was half human, half sheep wandering through New York City's busiest streets in a sleepy daze amidst an oblivious rush hour crowd in suspended animation behind him. Beautiful concept. Poetic in every way. I was hooked. Yet, i can't remember the artist.

When I'm awake, am I truly awake or am I still dreaming? Have you ever stopped to think of this?

For some reason, this has stuck with me for years as if my mind itself held onto this philosophical question like a stuffed animal from my youth. I've always been one to question.

Salvador Dali

Somehow my subconscious held onto this notion that life is a conundrum of thoughts and actions, sometimes conscious and sometimes subconscious. Although we may not know it, our subconscious says a lot about our reality, which has allowed dream interpreters to profit. Sometimes we say or do the things we would never say in person in our dreams. Other times, according to psychologists, we may be holding onto to past hurt and pain inside our subconscious, which debilitates us on a conscious level like the main character in Inception.
In the movie Inception, the main character, played by Leonardo Dicaprio, is unable to let go of his dead wife who appears in all his dreams. This poses as a risk for his operation as a "subconscious thief" who makes a living off entering the minds of business moguls in order to allow their opponents to profit from their ideas. Every time the main character is about to make a breakthrough, his dead wife would appear, preventing him from making any progress.

The problem was that the main character secured a special place in his memory for his wife, a well furnished prison where he, a talented architect by training, once built their dreams together like a city onto itself. Because of this, he is constantly being haunted by her in his thoughts and dreams. This debilitates him in more ways than one, perforating new dreams to see his children and new beginnings like a sharp arrow to his heart until ultimately, he has no choice but to let her go. In his mind, the small, sacred city where he kept her was already slowly falling a part like broken dreams.

How many times have we found ourselves having to make the same decision with people and things from our past that occupy our subconscious, negatively affecting our present? It could be an ex who you haven't gotten over or who did you wrong and whose faults you impose on your current partner; or a teacher who told you that you'd be no good at math, which you believed and have developed a mental block toward the subject. Whatever it is, these ghosts exist in people's subconscious, and if they aren't aware of it, they can hinder growth.

The images in the movie were breathtaking. It was like poetry unraveling onscreen, inciting thoughts and introspection with the plot and dialogue. Somewhere inside the plot, whether in the dream state or reality, you will begin to see yourself as if a mirror is being held to the big screen, questioning the state you're in: whether you're living someone else's dream or whether you have overcome subconscious setbacks, which often resemble fear or doubt, waking up to your own reality.
Salvador Dali

Nicole © 2010

Life is like a sunflower...

2010-07-31T23:58:00.021+02:00

It feels good to buy flowers on such a beautiful summer day. Walking into Whole Foods to do my usual grocery shopping I was drawn to a bunch of bright yellow flowers, a reflection, in my opinion, of the sunshine outside and how I felt inside. I delicately placed the bunch inside my shopping cart as I continued to shop, constantly glancing at them in admiration. I pictured them in our home, in a jug or vase placed on the hardwood floors near the large windows in our living room.

Three years ago, a new dress would've given me the same thrill. I would've paused at one of my many favorite boutiques in Brooklyn or the west village and purchase a dress that cost more than my grocery and those flowers would've cost for the month.
Somehow, my priority has shifted from glam to simplicity. Now, instead of focusing on the fleeting high of materialistic gain, I revel in the permanent high of my natural state of being. Nothing compares to this. I enjoy seizing the moment, strolling through parks with my partner and a good pair of walking shoes(yes, that was one purchase that was necessary. my first pair of converse!), writing for hours at my favorite neighborhood cafe, stopping to feel the wind and the sun pressed against my cheek, watch people go by along busy sidewalks as I slow down, browse local bookstores, purchase a companion with at least twenty chapters by an author I adore or a new one I'm intrigued by, sail into my neighborhood farmer's market and sail back out with fruits and a bunch of sunflowers.
Perhaps it's growth. Or perhaps I'm becoming more responsible (in a I'm-going-to-do-the-best-with-my-time kind of way), learning to discern what's really important like spending on experiences rather than possessions or simply learning to just be. This summer I've grown in so many different ways, from going completely natural by refusing to wear make-up (which by the way I've realized how beautiful I am without it), to allowing the sun to brown my skin a deeper shade of mahogany (something I used to fear out of ignorance and memories of "How much blacker could one get" critiques we used to endure in the Caribbean), to opting to go on a writer's retreat upstate, daring to miss out on social gatherings that I would've died to be a part of last year ignoring my need to write, to going hiking (something that I never had the desire to do until now with my very adventurous partner), to going bike riding around town (another thing that I was scared shit-less of doing).

I'm finding more and more, especially this summer, that life is like a sunflower, I better pick it now, put it in a vase, and marvel at its beauty while the sun is still shining.

Nicole © 2010

When the church doors close, I walk away.

2010-07-30T19:45:00.005+02:00

Today Author Ann Rice declared that she no longer follows the Christian faith due to how the religion treats gays and women, especially gays. Miss Rice released a follow up statement that says "My faith in Christ was "central" but "following Christ does not mean following His followers".

The article resonated with me because as a Christian, I used to grapple with these feelings, trying to reconcile my faith with my sexuality as gay. It took years for me to finally come to a place of peace, finally understanding that it is my relationship with Christ that is important and not the relationship with the church. In his teachings, Christ, the man who for decades was perceived to be this blonde hair, blue-eyed man with fair skin, never shunned anyone who didn't fit into societal norms. I've gotten over the debated physical attributes of this man, knowing that he neither resembled anything looking like the pictures on my granny's calenders back home nor was he judgmental in his teachings. I've also decided long ago that God and Christ are the same, and that God has no face, color, or gender.
Like Ann Rice, I walked away from the church. The last time I sat in a pew was Summer 2009, a year ago when I took a piece of bread in my mouth and drank wine, a symbol of the body and blood of Christ. Ironically, I didn't feel any better about what had taken place earlier. My eyes barely closed as everyone else bowed their heads in prayer because before the sermon, an usher resembling a bouncer dressed in a dark suit nearly shoved me to the side when I accidentally sat in the "reserved pew". Unlike the God we were told to emulate, I felt the devil breathing down my back, boiling my blood. I wanted to get up right then and there and make a scene while stomping out, I wanted to write the pastor a long letter of complaint, I wanted to scream to the pious congregation who were secretly eying each others outfits that I give up playing into this puppet show, I wanted to do everything but worship that day.
I absently recited a hymnal as I thought about my escape. I listlessly went through the service rituals, feeling powerless. I whispered a prayer to help calm my nerves. "Maybe I was just having a bad Sunday," I told myself. But how many bad Sundays could one have for over twenty years? How many bad Sundays could I possibly conjure after hearing the word broken down to benefit those preaching it? How many bad Sundays do I hear the word "sin" but not knowing what exactly "sin" is since anything, according to man and not God, could be classified as such? How many bad Sundays add up to judgments formed against gays, issues such as domestic violence and incest that were ignored, and rigid norms that influence a society and a community of followers into being self-righteous hypocrites (not to mention the wars waged on the grounds of religion)? How many Sundays does it take to be a Christian running on empty, tiptoeing on a Bible to gain height into nebulous clouds?

I stood up. Suddenly my head cleared, my heartbeat slowed, and my blood cooled off. At the door, I was greeted by a mild-mannered older woman who said, "I hope to see you again, sister." I stopped and turned to her. Her eyes held mine and I wondered if she knew. I politely smiled at her and left without looking back, clutching the cross pendant around my neck, not letting go.

Nicole © 2010

It's a Circus: Facebook Love affairs

2010-07-29T21:44:00.021+02:00

So today I was looking through facebook (of course during my free time)and saw a bunch of back and forth communication between people who are supposedly in a relationship. The posts went from insipidly sweet lines of adoration to sexual innuendos dripping wet...so wet that I could almost taste the salty, musty odor of human excretion inside my coffee, nearly choking to death. If people are in relationships, then aren't most of their interactions supposed to be private? Granted, I always post pics of my excursions with my partner, but we don't write on each others' walls just to say "Pass the salt, honey."

Why does facebook and your "boo" have to know how much you miss him/her? Why can't you just pick up the phone and call? I'm sure your "boo" will feel more special by hearing your voice rather than seeing a status message that the whole world already saw. Must the entire world feel your angst too? Must they comment on your post saying "Sorry dear, but I can fill in for your boo until he/she gets back"? or "Here...borrow my vibrator right quick."
What irks me the most are couples who want to be secretive about their relationship, especially if they're a part of a gossiping scene, yet they still resort to posting telling pics and comments on their lover's page followed by exclamation points. Now common, who are they fooling? Even Stevie Wonder could see the number of posts laced with enough "!!!!!" and "lovey-dovey" innuendos to make anyone roll their eyeballs inside the sockets.

Finally, the worse thing I ever witnessed on facebook is a lover's quarrel. Now this is the most immature occurrence to ever jar my consciousness, inciting me to delete both individuals then blocking them. If two grown people cannot be mature enough to keep their arguments between them and not have the entire world know how unfaithful and selfish their significant other is, then how on earth were they mature enough to keep a stable relationship to begin with? It's obvious where they both went wrong, thinking they were auditioning for "The Young and the Restless". Grow up!
Despite my frustration with "facebook clowns", which I like to refer to them as, simply because I honestly believe that they share nothing in common besides their love for public display of affection on facebook, I'm still a bit voyeuristic. Therefore, while I'm catching a glimpse of their drama and comedy unravel online in a cheap circus that could make even grown kids puke, I have the luxury of laughing out loud, happy that at least I can sign off, forget, and go make myself another cup of coffee.

Nicole © 2010

Living a prayer

2010-07-28T16:54:00.027+02:00

I haven't prayed on my knees in a while. It's not that I don't know how to or have an internal block, it's just that for some reason, I feel like I'm living a prayer each day. Given my Christian upbringing, I feel like I'm threading on dangerous ground by revealing this. In my mind I can see my grandmother giving me the eye, asking when was the last time I pray (like get down on my knees with a rag over my head) and me telling her that I simply am living a prayer.

Me living a prayer means that I give thanks everyday for the simple things in life by enjoying them. Everything I do, I believe I'm in communication with my maker. I don't have to be on my knees to show God that I'm grateful for life and my many blessings. My prayers have always been ones of thanksgiving. It's not that I have any reservations in asking for help when I need it. I do. But I also know that most times, I need to help myself before I can start writing a long list or sit there waiting for a miracle to occur.
I once knew a girl in high school who got "saved" in our senior year (6th form in Jamaica). We would have exams in preparation for our A-Levels, yet she would refuse to study, opting to read her Bible instead. I knew deep down that something was not right with her not wanting to study. "God will come through. I prayed about it," she would say as she delicately flipped the thin pages of her Bible. I stared blankly at my A-Level Biology text books, looking at arteries and blood vessels, wondering if I was the one with little faith. Perhaps I was Peter, or was that Paul?--Who was afraid to walk on water. But No. I wasn't Peter, I wasn't Paul, I wasn't Jesus who already held an A+ in A-Level Biology, Chemistry and Physics...enough to figure out how to defy all the natural laws; I was Nicole, an average student with a Biology exam to study for.
I always knew that God will help those who help themselves. So I left my friend to study her Bible while I studied for my exam. The next day, I finished my exam and floated out of the room (on air), confident that I passed. And I did. My friend came out of the exam fretful and panicking. She had failed.

I find that I'm in constant communication with God when I do the things I should be doing, working hard at it, and sharing it. I believe that God lives within us and around us, and if we try, our efforts will be rewarded. I've witnessed miracles before (not on 34th street, although it would be good to get a 50 percent discount on a Macy's suit), but one time in a small room when I was desperately in need. I also happen to see miracles everyday, because the ability to live, learn and grow is the biggest one. Although I'm still not able to turn water into wine at expensive restaurants, I'm responsible for my own miracles. When I was a struggling student and needed money, I whispered a prayer. However, while praying, I was the one who sent out the job applications and went to all the interviews. Rather than just sit there on the couch waiting for the miracle, I went after it. Now I can afford a glass of wine.
Therefore, I believe that every step in life should be a prayer of gratitude by doing. I believe that a simple act of eating should be one in which you rejoice by allowing yourself to savor the taste, let the flavor sit on your tongue for a minute before swallowing. I believe that if you want something, you should get up, get out and actively seek.

Sometimes things happen because God thinks it's time for a new chapter to begin, that it's time for you to realize that dancing and not accounting is what you really should be doing, that it's time for you to stop fooling yourself into thinking that he/she is the one for you, that it's time for you to just stop for a minute and adjust your lenses, that it's time for you to just see the beauty around you because while you were doing what you thought you needed to be doing, life was passing you by, that it's time for you to get up off your knees and walk. Oddly enough, that was my testimony, and by writing this, I'm rejoicing. I learned how to give thanks by actively living my blessings.

Nicole © 2010

Being a friend and partner to Black womyn in academia

2010-07-27T18:45:00.033+02:00

I see resistant waves reaching all the way onto the shore, erasing institutional foot prints while planting their own treasures in the sand...
My interactions as of late have been with black women in academia, including my partner. This wasn't something planned or even anticipated, but it happened. In passing (or at home), I listen to their conversations. I nibble on bits and pieces of their woes with departmental politics, grant applications, their procrastination in writing book chapters, their fights with nonchalant advisers, their angst over completing dissertations, and their anxiety over teaching undergraduate courses.

My fascination with this group of womyn is purely out of admiration. Most of them are working hard, not for others, but for themselves. They don't care if men/women are intimidated by their ambition, and they have little patience in having to explain why they feel the need to attain PhD's. "How much schooling do you need, huh?" Their family, mainly the working class ones, would ask them in exasperation at barbecues, family reunions, and weddings. "Why are you not taking on the responsibility of a grown woman? You're not even married yet, chile!" The criticisms would come hard, piercing their chests like arrows. I see my partner weep at nights sometimes, and as a tough cookie, those are the only times when I have to comfort her, telling her that it'll be OK, that it'll be worth it when it's all done.

Not many people understand the rigors of an academic career in that way. To most people outside of academia, getting tenure or even starting out as a research scientist in a university that offers "hard money" is not a significant mile stone in their lives. They don't see the struggle, blood, sweat, and tears it takes to be established as a full professor. All they see is the name on the office door, or "Dr." before the person's name. Black womyn of course, have to work harder, burning midnight oils by their laptops, praying that their hard-drives don't fail them as they load chapters upon chapters of their heart and soul.

So I love to see them free. As an advocate for black women's mental health and well-being, I love seeing them take some time for themselves to appear at events I happen to be. In the summer,their brown bodies roast in the sun, but they can't seem to feel a thing given the heat they're already trying to escape. I allow them to talk about their "work", giggle as they roll their eyes, shrug their shoulders and down another mojito. My partner simply doesn't feel the need to talk about it outside of work, because she really values her downtime, opting to just listen to the others share their stories over brunch, dinner or drinks, sometimes blatantly changing the subject to something lighter.

I had an outer body experience of looking at myself now, the intellectual and writer, sitting amongst these young professors or professors-to-be, leaning close as they confess to me their insecurities and woes. As I listened, I had a flashback of my years in undergrad at Cornell and again in graduate school at the University of Michigan. I remembered at Cornell wanting so badly to see a young black female professor, but never getting the chance to. I remembered only seeing middle-age white men (and some women) grading papers or lecturing, wondering if professors all look like that, except in Africana where the professors there were black but middle-age men (two women), nonetheless.

It was then that I realized that there was a lack of womyn of color in academia, especially in a traditional Ivy-League school. I wished back then that I had academic mentors and professors who looked like them, womyn who I could admire in an institution run by the established old boy's club. These womyn (and yes, many of the ones that I'm friends with today are gay) would've probably buckled under the stress of surviving in those departments rigged by politics, but I would have encouraged them to stay, perhaps dragging them by their skirt tails or ties back inside the classroom letting them know that their presence is empowering.

For the most part, the ones I end up meeting are taking their challenges in stride because their eyes are fixated on the prize. Perhaps they're first generation college graduates in their families, or perhaps they believe that they owe it to their ancestors to climb as high as possible on the educational ladder. Whatever their motivation is, it's very strong. And as my grandmother always say, "If yuh want good, yuh nose haffi run", which translates to "If you want to achieve, you may weep when times get hard, but with perseverance, you will conquer".

Nicole © 2010

ps. Check out my partner's new spoken word Album "Confessions of an Academic". You can check out my review of the album in the "Young, gifted, and black" blog. For more info about the upcoming CD release party on August 13th and/or ordering, contact me at poetacademic@gmail.com

What does racism today look like?

2010-07-26T18:38:00.041+02:00

This weekend I partied it up in midtown, celebrating my good friend's birthday. Like the fab New Yorkers we are, we occupied a fabulous garden rooftop that overlooked the sparkling lights of the city. We then high-tailed our way to a club, something that I haven't done in a long time since it's not really my cup of tea anymore now that I've grown into the more laid back lounge scene. However, given that I was there for my friend who wanted to party, I decided to go with the flow, putting down my wine glass in exchange for a wrist band, navigating the world of young desperate singles, bouncers with attitudes, and the scent of alcohol mixed with too much cologne and perfume that always seem to occupy the very little air left for breathing. Despite my mental block to the club scene, I enjoyed feeling like I was 20 again and enjoyed hanging out with friends. From one place to the next I felt free, except for this one feeling that slowly crept down my throat as the night went on like a tablespoon of medicine that left a bitter taste on my tongue.

The feeling began when I noticed the demographics of the people who were present after certain hours at the rooftop party. From a long line of diverse crowd outside, mostly whites were selected to enter. At first, I ignored my suspicion given that the table where I sat had black people and contrary to the reviews that I read online about the place being racist, I didn't have any bad experiences with the service. However, as we got up to leave, I saw a group of people look at us as if questioning our presence there. Clearly, it was an anomaly to see a group of black people at that place after certain hours. For that reason, I wanted to stay a bit longer to see what the dynamic would be, but opted to leave with my friends who had plans to party somewhere else.

My suspicion was officially confirmed when a member of the birthday party group walked up to us when we stood outside. "I couldn't get in, I'm sorry," he said, his dark face streaked with anger. "What's wrong?" Another friend asked. With an audible sigh, the young man said that he was standing in line for an hour. When he got to the front, he was accused by the doorman of cutting in line when clearly he had waited in line patiently to get inside, twice. He said that the bouncer took one look at him, scowled and proceeded to let in a group of people who were stark opposite of his midnight complexion.
Inwardly I fumed, because I knew he wasn't lying. I knew all night as my heart pounded inside my chest that something didn't feel right. Before 9pm, the place presented itself as a chill place to be, but after that, it becomes extremely racist once the lines begin to form outside. The bouncers have the authority of letting whoever they feel are aesthetically and racially pleasing to them. Because of this, I went as early as possible. However, how could I ignore the fact that this was what I had to do in order to get inside? How could I ignore the blatant racism I suspected even if I wasn't the target?
Many people would look the other way, weakly stating that with a black president, racism is dead. However, I believe that in this day and age, it may not necessarily look like it did back in the sixties. In 2010, racism is more liberal. It cocks its feet up on sofas in local cafes, sipping coffee as it browses the real estate section of The New York Times with plans of occupying spaces that it would soon forbid "others" from entering. It may even appear before you, wearing an Obama pin that reads "Change is now" while glaring at you from a safe distance behind dark shades with a tight-lipped smile, shaking its head at your pending demise. Racism may hang out at your local bookstore or restaurant, always questioning your presence. With the same tight-lipped smile, racism may politely ask you where you're from and what you do, wondering how a black person could afford to live in this neighborhood, wondering how a black person could get accepted into this program, wondering how could a black person have the audacity to eat in this restaurant, ruminating over how a black person could feel confident enough to exist among them.
Racism today is more vicious. Racism today believe that blacks aren't curious or smart enough to read blogs geared toward people of a certain demographic living in a certain neighborhood (I won't say which) and magazines saying whatever they please without any question or convictions. Racism today learned from their parents and grandparents that being overt with their intolerance of other races wasn't enough. The new generation racism was schooled to be covert, giving tight-lipped smiles between insipidly sweet and condescending statements, stare you down in public without blinking (for their steely eyes can say what the lips are too scared to utter), and act as liberal as possible while making racist remarks in jest under their breaths or in jumbled sarcastic repertoire so that the Uncle Toms would laugh along with them.

Racism today may appear shocked when you list your degrees. They may challenge you with that affirmative action question, giving that same tight-lipped smile as they tell you that their son or daughter got rejected from the school you graduated magna cum laude from. Racism today feels more comfortable around you if they feel they can outsmart you. Blacks in the past played into this, dumbing themselves down for the sake of not being killed. However, blacks today, except for Lil Wayne and the rest, know that dumbing down ourselves would only make our ancestors who fought so hard for our opportunities, roll in their graves. Therefore, the new revolution has to be an intellectual one. Yes we have a black president, but so what? That's only one person.
Finally, many blacks have shied away from going to places where they fear they would get discriminated against. I used to be guilty of that. There were times when my partner suggest trying out new restaurants in areas where I suspected no other blacks were present, and I declined, suddenly feeling self-conscious. However, I'm finding now that it pisses racist people off when we have the audacity to not fear their non-verbal intolerance.

Therefore, instead of shying away, I make my way inside the restaurant and have my meal there. I want to frequent these places as a bold statement of my rebellion. My presence is not to insult the owner, but to make it very clear that I too exist and just like anyone else, I need to be served. At this point, combating racism is not about pride or money. Yes, I am aware that money talks and by boycotting these places, they would lose money; however, they weren't worried about losing money to begin with by not serving us. Therefore, for me, combating racism is about having the courage to look it dead in the eyes and say "I DARE YOU".

Nicole © 2010