Proverbial Pill Poppin...

Ernie hasn’t seen The Matrix, and I take issue to that, with extreme prejudice. This shouldn’t surprise me, but c’mon! The Matrix?! I still remember walking back from Westwood with my hommies talking about what we had just seen. We were all Neo, stopping the imaginary bullets in our path, on our way up the hill.

I can’t with him, but I will. Don’t judge how we love/hate/whatever it is we do.

Why do I bring this up? Because I ASKED Y’ALL to close and lock up Iyanla’s house but noooooooo, yall just wanna leave it all open and what not, and all this stuff keeps pouring out of me. Thanks -_- so much.

But my man Morpheus was slanging those pills:

You take the blue pill – the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill – you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Image from dawgonnit.com (April 2018)

I would have done just as Neo, even with Morpheus cautioning that all he was offering was truth, because I don’t want to believe that fat meat comes with grease.

Now I know ALL THESE THINGS. And when you know all these things you have to make some hard choices. You know, be all moral and whatnot. I haven’t watched a professional football game in two NFL seasons. I barely know who plays on what team these days. I quit Chik-Fil-A knowing damn well how much I LIVED for those waffle fries and nuggets. I don’t listen to those dudes from Chicago who make music because, well, do I have to explain? I do my best to not assume one’s gender or pronouns forcing myself to go against my male/female/boy/girl nature – I struggle with this so much, but I would rather struggle with it, than oppress someone with my cis-gender privilege. *queues up Truth Hurts album because there isn’t a song on the album entitled Truth Hurts so we just gotta listen to the album and let the truth hurt our feelings*

My friend asked me about my professional football protesting, in the wake of the settlement agreement between the NFL and my man Kap. What happens now? I mean, they came to some resolution, so the protest is over, right? Well… That would be right, if I was protesting the NFL because of what they did to Kap and he was welcomed back to the league, then yeah, it worked. Let’s watch. But remember that red pill I took? What the NFL has done to Colin Kaepernick is absolutely disgusting, settled or not. But when I went down this rabbit hole, there were all these other issues that came up. Something is wrong with the NFL and I know that now. I cannot un-know it. I cannot watch it.

I was in Lolli & Pops with Jigs buying bougie boozy gummy bears. In my going back and forth with her, I made statements assuming the gender of the employee assisting us with our purchase. Seeing that I don’t whisper too good, this individual could have clearly overheard my assigning of their gender. We completed our purchase and walked out of the store. At the entrance, I realized what I had just done, and made an immediate about face to apologize to the individual. After the apology I confessed, I know better, I need to do better, and left. (Why am I like this?)

I understand Cypher better and his reasons for betraying the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar. I am not sure which burden is heavier: knowing the truth or having to tell it to someone. Regardless of the weight, ignorance sounds pretty blissful these days. I loved my life as a football fan and I know I can never have that life again. I’m so awkward asking someone their preferred pronouns, not because of them or any other outside influence – it just feels weird to me because I'm hardwired to Male/Female, which permeates my asking. I can’t listen to any of ole’boy’s albums following The College Dropout because although he’s cancelled, I cannot be asked to give up ALL THE THINGS – it’s just too hard, Lord. Haven’t I been through enough??

…and much like Cypher, I am lamenting my proverbial pill popping choices too. I have yet to get to the bottom of the rabbit hole.

Please Forgive Me, I Do*

*(queues up Anita Baker)

There was this one time, that an ex and I had to be in the same place at the same damn time and it almost went very well, which means it was actually awful and there were so many reasons why. *queues up EWF*

Those weren’t the reasons at all though. At least not for me. I had made my peace with what we were and weren’t by that time. So many years had passed. There had been so much to misunderstand, and even more silence to miss it with. One thing lingered though.

An apology. In all of it, he never apologized. And I really needed it. Hell, being honest, I still need that ‘ish. And it’s not like I am looking for heartfelt (or other felt) apologies from the people who have come and gone. It would behoove many of them to never reach my wavelength again. But because of who we are, and what we were, I seem to need it so much, if we are ever to be anything again.

I know, I know. In the words of Pop’s: I got issues. (I’m not working on them, in case you were wondering. That sounds too much like right.) But there was point I was looking for.

Courtesy of my feelings and IG: @22visionary

So, this one day, I was looking around on the internets and ‘webs minding all yall business and came across this: We talk a lot about the apologies we’ll never receive. What about the ones we’ll never be able to offer?

I have been (not) waiting for his and other apologies for so long, that I never thought about the apologies I have been holding on to. I mean, it’s not like I’ve left a cobblestone path of transgressions or anything in my past, but it’s just that, one or two people might wanna hear me admit some of the ain’t shit things I’ve done – whether I intended them or otherwise.

I don’t know how to live like this in a world where the things I really want are the things I really need to do. But here’s a valiant attempt (beginning chronologically because I ain’t got a mental health professional on retainer to fix me once I admit the recent stuff):

When I was in 8^th grade (or around that age) I had a boyfriend for like two days. Okay, maybe three days. Let’s just agree that it was not even a week. Anyway, this arrangement was made between he and I, so like, only the people in our locus knew about it. Which means it was perfect, because there was no way on this side of Jordan’s River that I was going to tell my Daddie about it.

Until the day the young man came to my house to see me. Not as a kid coming to play with the other kids who lived in my home, but as a suitor – a boyfriend coming to see his girlfriend.

I panicked yall. I looked out the window and made a decision. Inside is good. Stay there. Whatever you do, don’t go outside. Salvation could have been waiting for me on the other side of the front door, and I would have condemned myself to everlasting damnation. Which is basically what I did.

We broke up. Not because we talked about it, or one of us communicated to the other that the relationship was over on a note passed between friends. I literally never went back outside, which was a big deal. This was the 90’s yall – we LIVED for being outside. I died.

It seems a small thing to apologize for. (This is me, apologizing.) But it’s a big thing. A huge thing. It was the foundation for my entire life as a woman attempting to authentically engage in a relationship. I never did. Not once. In all my loving somebody’s son, not one of those sons met my father. I was never brave enough to stand before my Daddie and profess my love/infatuation/care/misguided-lust for the man I entertained at the time.

I apologize. A LEO is supposed to be brave, supposed to have courage. Jesus didn’t die on the cross to see me out here simpin’ but here I am. I saved none of that courage, none of that bravery, none of it for the men who came to eventually pass. I wish I knew the why. I suppose I wondered what tragic thing would (not) of happened if I had introduced a then boyfriend to my always father. What would Daddie of said (or not) to them? What would have changed in my relationship with Daddie? Being Daddie’s girl seemed *subconsciously because, like I had real-time awareness of this?* more important than being that man’s woman, so maybe it just made sense to keep both those lives separated? Who can know such things in such times that these are?

It doesn’t feel good to offer that. Probably the reason why I never did it. I’m not trying to clear the skeletons in my closet. I’ve made adequate space for them and all my shoes. It’s just, I know what having that apology would have meant for me that day, and well, I’ve got enough baggage of my own to be in 2019 holding on to something for which I have little use.

Now I asked yall to close the gate at Iyanla’s house. Who left one of her window’s open??

I clearly need new people.

Beloved, It's That Day Again.

As yet another Valentine’s Day rears its [ugly, commercial, holiday-not-meant-for-me-it-seems, *feel free to throw in your descriptor here*] head I am forced, yet again, to do what I have been doing for quite some time: queue up Single Ladies. Not because I’m feeling all empowered about not having a sole to split rent or brunch checks with, but I’m kinda feeling powerless because I DON’T HAVE ANYONE TO SPLIT RENT OR BRUNCH CHECKS WITH! I mean, what is empowering about paying winter PG&E bills all by yourself? Right. Nothing.

In my drowning (and I can’t swim because I’m totes a stereotype) in all that is something I should have made my peace with a decade or so ago, I hear the words of a dear friend attempting to drown out the noise of well, her aloneness (maybe, if left unchecked) beginning to turn into loneliness:

I’m going to spend this time working on the things that I feel don’t make me a good mate for someone else.

Image taken from YouTube 2018. OWN Network.

What in the acknowledging your own issues and constructive self-critique is that? Who in the hell left the gate open at Iyanla’s house? Beloved, please go’on over there and close it shut. Lock it twice for good measure. I’m glad my friend told me that over the phone, because if she had to look me in the eye speaking those words, she would have witnessed the opened window to my soul and all the ain’t shit-ness about me inside that well, probably makes me a terrible mate for someone. (I’m really great when you get to know me, sorta)

So imagine those words in the background in your mind and you, for instance, not for real (actually what I am about to describe for you is very real, but let’s pretend), you’re at a social event and you see someone who could, um, how do you say, get it *shrugs while smirking* and you realize, or your friend Glen(livet) tells you that you’re perfectly single to go ahead and get got. Somehow, through a twisting of fate and your friend’s arm, (mostly your friend, but fate is always on the clock so…) contact information exchanges happen. You’re that much closer than you have been in a long time to getting got. Won’t He do it?

Then the background podcasting of your other friend plays and you realize that maybe there are one or two or ten things you need to work on before there is any got’n to get.

I hate my smart ass friends, yo. Hate them.

What happens next? Well, you feel hella convicted because that’s what happens when someone opens a portal to your soul – you don’t use that exchanged contact information at all. Sure, he didn’t reach out either, but like, you have no qualms about making the first move because things like decorum and manners are totally suggestions and well, you’re super intelligent (via books) so why take suggestions? You didn’t do the thing that you are absolutely comfortable doing and you can’t understand why. *queues up Brownstone*

Then the background podcasting of your friend plays and you realize that maybe there are one or two or ten things preventing you from sending that perfectly awkwardly constructed flirty text message.

Listen. This is not me telling you to do the right thing if you’re feeling some kind of way about being single this upcoming Valentine’s Day. Have you met me? When have I ever been on the right side of anything but a Happy Hour invite? This is me totally sending out the proverbial chain letter that I got a few weeks ago.

Good luck with it, homey. Also, you can’t send it back to me. #PayItForward

Happy Valentine’s Day. Unless you’re Mary J – then it ain’t too happy.