I haven't written in so long because so much and nothing at all has been happening. Does that make sesnse? Probably not.
In any case, I'm okay. Mostly.
Just a little over a month till our birthdays and just a few more weeks till the year's over. I sorta feel like I want to end this year already. It's not necessarily a good nor a bad thing, I just want to get into more solid ground, and I think that's not going to happen this year.
Tralala, ladida.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
You Are Enough
Oh, the immeasurable joy of having your child reach out for you in mid-sleep, in mid-nightmare; having her hold you and smell you and seeing her calm down. In that eternity of a moment, all self-doubt washes away. In that eternity, you are enough.
(But she, she is more than enough. She is everything.)
And in the infinity between then and the not-yet-now, you believe that it is true, and that it is the only truth that matters.
(But she, she is more than enough. She is everything.)
And in the infinity between then and the not-yet-now, you believe that it is true, and that it is the only truth that matters.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
3rd
I started the day by finally submitting a story for publication. It was a story about a day that I had inside my head a few weeks after getting out of the basement. And then I did a cursory search of some files I had in my G-Drive and found a letter. It was the note I wrote right before I...did what I did.
I hadn't realized I saved a copy of it, to be honest. When I started reading the first sentence, I instantly remembered what it was. I know, I know. I shouldn't have read it, but I couldn't stop. The only reason I didn't read it till the end was that my eyes had gone all blurry with tears. I rushed to the restroom and locked myself in the stall and promptly wept. I would've stayed cocooned in my melancholy had it not been for a friend who said, just a few minutes after crying, "Happy Other Birthday."
And I remembered that I made a promise to myself to celebrate the fact that I lived. Three years since that horrible, horrible day.
The next day, on August 14, I got my 14th. To celebrate my 3rd Other Birthday.
And today, I stay in bed.
I hadn't realized I saved a copy of it, to be honest. When I started reading the first sentence, I instantly remembered what it was. I know, I know. I shouldn't have read it, but I couldn't stop. The only reason I didn't read it till the end was that my eyes had gone all blurry with tears. I rushed to the restroom and locked myself in the stall and promptly wept. I would've stayed cocooned in my melancholy had it not been for a friend who said, just a few minutes after crying, "Happy Other Birthday."
And I remembered that I made a promise to myself to celebrate the fact that I lived. Three years since that horrible, horrible day.
The next day, on August 14, I got my 14th. To celebrate my 3rd Other Birthday.
 | |
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My weekends are usually like this now. I try very hard to be functioning during the week, to make sure I am as normal as I possibly can. So weekends, I am rendered wary of humanity and all the rest of the world. Exhausted. Sad. Hopeful. Lonely. But alive.
L'chaim. On with the story.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
A Scar and a Bruise
Sometimes, I close my eyes. And imagine myself away.
I start from the top. I imagine that my eyebrows are fuller, that my eyes are not as dark. I imagine I have longer lashes and eyes that can see without glasses. I imagine having a more elegant nose. I imagine myself without allergies, my face is clear and smooth. Sometimes I imagine that I have dimples, but I actually like the dents of my mouth. I actually like my mouth. I like my teeth.
I imagine I have a long, smooth neck that meets my face with a jawline that could slice mangoes. I imagine having thinner arms and more ladylike fingers. I imagine I have shoulders that were poised for battle. But I like my small breasts. I breastfed for 22 months. I would've breastfed longer if my medicines had not poisoned my milk. I like that they are small and can be ignored. I like that I can get away with not wearing a bra.
I imagine I have a smaller tummy. Not flat, just smaller. I imagine having smaller thighs, but I like my butt (on most days), so I worry about how my thinner thighs would be able to support a butt like mine. And then I tell myself that physics and biology have no place in daydreams, and so I go back to imagining I have smaller thighs.
Some things I can't imagine away either because I actually like them, am at peace with them, or can't identify myself without them.
For example: I cannot imagine myself taller. I can't imagine my helicopter-like birthmark away. I can't imagine my chin away. And my eyes—I actually love my eyes. (If only I could see better with them.)
I can't imagine my scar away. When I feel another panic attack coming (which has been often, of late), I find myself holding my scar to feel calm. I think about how my guts were removed from inside of me, placed on a cold slab of metal, in order to safely take my child out. And I think about how the doctor was able to put every last inch of them back in and made me work again. For some reason, this idea of being disemboweled then put back together again makes me feel rather magical. Superior, at times.
There is a portion of my belly, however, that has not regained sensation. The doctor said it was because my nerves were severed and some of them will never grow the same way again. And so there is a part of my body that feels nothing, and I touch it whenever I feel too much. And I am calm.
I have a bruise—a series of bruises, maybe—that have been growing in size. The doctor said the medicines have made my blood thin, my veins weak. For some reason, the veins on my right thigh have been especially affected. I bruised myself (I've forgotten how) late October, maybe. The veins bled, just underneath my skin, and so now I have patches of bruises along my thigh that stem from that same bruise. The doctor said it will go away, eventually. It will just really take some time. For now, I look like I've been hazed. But just on my right thigh.
I tried imagining those bruises away, but I'm too fascinated by them. I think about the bruise that started it all, how it bled, how the blood coursed its way below my skin, above my veins (not through them). I suppose if I had to count them, I'd say I have about ten little bruises now, maybe 15. Or are they all just one bruise? When will the marks go away? When will my blood flow naturally again?
It will just take time. Eventually, it will go away.
I will feel nothing forever, but I hold it when I feel too much.
//
Sometimes, I wish I were beautiful.
I start from the top. I imagine that my eyebrows are fuller, that my eyes are not as dark. I imagine I have longer lashes and eyes that can see without glasses. I imagine having a more elegant nose. I imagine myself without allergies, my face is clear and smooth. Sometimes I imagine that I have dimples, but I actually like the dents of my mouth. I actually like my mouth. I like my teeth.
I imagine I have a long, smooth neck that meets my face with a jawline that could slice mangoes. I imagine having thinner arms and more ladylike fingers. I imagine I have shoulders that were poised for battle. But I like my small breasts. I breastfed for 22 months. I would've breastfed longer if my medicines had not poisoned my milk. I like that they are small and can be ignored. I like that I can get away with not wearing a bra.
I imagine I have a smaller tummy. Not flat, just smaller. I imagine having smaller thighs, but I like my butt (on most days), so I worry about how my thinner thighs would be able to support a butt like mine. And then I tell myself that physics and biology have no place in daydreams, and so I go back to imagining I have smaller thighs.
Some things I can't imagine away either because I actually like them, am at peace with them, or can't identify myself without them.
For example: I cannot imagine myself taller. I can't imagine my helicopter-like birthmark away. I can't imagine my chin away. And my eyes—I actually love my eyes. (If only I could see better with them.)
I can't imagine my scar away. When I feel another panic attack coming (which has been often, of late), I find myself holding my scar to feel calm. I think about how my guts were removed from inside of me, placed on a cold slab of metal, in order to safely take my child out. And I think about how the doctor was able to put every last inch of them back in and made me work again. For some reason, this idea of being disemboweled then put back together again makes me feel rather magical. Superior, at times.
There is a portion of my belly, however, that has not regained sensation. The doctor said it was because my nerves were severed and some of them will never grow the same way again. And so there is a part of my body that feels nothing, and I touch it whenever I feel too much. And I am calm.
I have a bruise—a series of bruises, maybe—that have been growing in size. The doctor said the medicines have made my blood thin, my veins weak. For some reason, the veins on my right thigh have been especially affected. I bruised myself (I've forgotten how) late October, maybe. The veins bled, just underneath my skin, and so now I have patches of bruises along my thigh that stem from that same bruise. The doctor said it will go away, eventually. It will just really take some time. For now, I look like I've been hazed. But just on my right thigh.
I tried imagining those bruises away, but I'm too fascinated by them. I think about the bruise that started it all, how it bled, how the blood coursed its way below my skin, above my veins (not through them). I suppose if I had to count them, I'd say I have about ten little bruises now, maybe 15. Or are they all just one bruise? When will the marks go away? When will my blood flow naturally again?
It will just take time. Eventually, it will go away.
I will feel nothing forever, but I hold it when I feel too much.
//
Sometimes, I wish I were beautiful.
Saturday, July 11, 2015
When the World Was Pink
I have been told countless times that my daughter is almost exactly like me. We have the same expressions, the same interests, the same speech patterns. We have the same hair, the same laugh, the same chin, the same nose. We have the same love language (touch), the same temper (intense). She has my OCD and the same obsession with pink. We can both talk nonstop.
I see parts of her that aren't me, though. She is fearless. She is sure on her feet. She takes to swimming and running and all other physical activities like a natural.
My whole life is about her.
--
It is almost impossible to think of myself apart from being a mother; and yet it is this aspect—this non-mother-ness—that weighs heavily on me. As the annulment process reaches the next stage, reading all sorts of summaries of reports and testimonies, I realize that before that, I couldn't think of myself apart from being a wife.
For what am I—now—if you strip away my being a mother, a wife?
I am lonely. I am afraid. I am tired. I am confused.
I would like to have someone take care of me, ask me about my day, massage my head, my shoulders. I would like someone to tell me that my laughter lifts his/her spirits. That my laughter matters.
I would like someone to notice how my laughter has been hollow of late. How my eyes are sad. How he/she listens to me weep at night and stays up late to tell the ghosts to go away. To leave me alone.
I want to hear, "I love that you take care of me. But here, let me take care of you."
Just don't tell me you love me. I disbelieve it now if it doesn't come from my family and best friends.
--
I'm just tired. And in a few days, it will have been a year since.
And in that year, I will have been alone by choice. Too afraid and disgusted and walled-in.
--
Sometimes, my condition makes me doubt my own memories of happiness. I doubt if those happiness-es were real or just a by-product of my mania.
I do remember one moment when I was neither wife nor mother.
I was driving home from one of my classes in the dead of winter. The roads were miraculously clear and the snow was still. It was moments after dusk and the world around me was pink. The sky, the snow, the air—everything was pink. And the world was quiet and still. I opened my windows and drove home in silence. I didn't notice my tears and how they had all but frozen on my cheeks. I don't even remember why I cried. All I knew was that, at that moment, I was happy.
--
I go back to bed and nurse the abdominal pain that—contrary to what everyone said—didn't go away after I gave birth. (This PMS, unlike most of my relationships, though, is constant, reliable.) I close my eyes as this inchoate migraine has turned me photosensitive again. And my child love languages me calm. For now, I am only mother, for it is the one thing that makes sense to me. She whispers, "I love you," and for a moment, I forget how long it has been since I last heard that as a form of a lie.
I see parts of her that aren't me, though. She is fearless. She is sure on her feet. She takes to swimming and running and all other physical activities like a natural.
My whole life is about her.
--
It is almost impossible to think of myself apart from being a mother; and yet it is this aspect—this non-mother-ness—that weighs heavily on me. As the annulment process reaches the next stage, reading all sorts of summaries of reports and testimonies, I realize that before that, I couldn't think of myself apart from being a wife.
For what am I—now—if you strip away my being a mother, a wife?
I am lonely. I am afraid. I am tired. I am confused.
I would like to have someone take care of me, ask me about my day, massage my head, my shoulders. I would like someone to tell me that my laughter lifts his/her spirits. That my laughter matters.
I would like someone to notice how my laughter has been hollow of late. How my eyes are sad. How he/she listens to me weep at night and stays up late to tell the ghosts to go away. To leave me alone.
I want to hear, "I love that you take care of me. But here, let me take care of you."
Just don't tell me you love me. I disbelieve it now if it doesn't come from my family and best friends.
--
I'm just tired. And in a few days, it will have been a year since.
And in that year, I will have been alone by choice. Too afraid and disgusted and walled-in.
--
Sometimes, my condition makes me doubt my own memories of happiness. I doubt if those happiness-es were real or just a by-product of my mania.
I do remember one moment when I was neither wife nor mother.
I was driving home from one of my classes in the dead of winter. The roads were miraculously clear and the snow was still. It was moments after dusk and the world around me was pink. The sky, the snow, the air—everything was pink. And the world was quiet and still. I opened my windows and drove home in silence. I didn't notice my tears and how they had all but frozen on my cheeks. I don't even remember why I cried. All I knew was that, at that moment, I was happy.
--
I go back to bed and nurse the abdominal pain that—contrary to what everyone said—didn't go away after I gave birth. (This PMS, unlike most of my relationships, though, is constant, reliable.) I close my eyes as this inchoate migraine has turned me photosensitive again. And my child love languages me calm. For now, I am only mother, for it is the one thing that makes sense to me. She whispers, "I love you," and for a moment, I forget how long it has been since I last heard that as a form of a lie.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Punch-Drunk Gratitude
You know what?
The past few weeks have been exhausting. And soul-crushing. (I will never marry again. I will never marry again. I will never marry again. Well, maybe I will. If I find a Unicorn.) I try not to make this blog a platform of bitterness (I'm looking at you, Katinka of 2009, for shame), so I won't tell you why exactly.
But, my goodness. My goodness.
But I'm not here to talk about that. (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 7, 8, 9, 10...woosah.) I'm here to talk about incredible grace.
If you ask me about single motherhood I will tell you about:
And in all things—even if that "all" isn't much—I give thanks.
The past few weeks have been exhausting. And soul-crushing. (I will never marry again. I will never marry again. I will never marry again. Well, maybe I will. If I find a Unicorn.) I try not to make this blog a platform of bitterness (I'm looking at you, Katinka of 2009, for shame), so I won't tell you why exactly.
But, my goodness. My goodness.
But I'm not here to talk about that. (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 7, 8, 9, 10...woosah.) I'm here to talk about incredible grace.
If you ask me about single motherhood I will tell you about:
- How parents always come charging when asked. How they come silently, gently, when not. How they always come. They always, always come.
- How brothers grow up to be the sort of men that you are in awe of. Such talent, such intelligence, such humility, such magnificent sense of Others.
- How family prays for you. And roots for you. And reminds you that you are made of sterner stuff. That dignity runs in the family. That miracles happen.
- How friends just give. And give. And give. And tell you, to stop being mothering them, to let them mother you.
- (But also, thank you for letting me mother you all.)
- How your child reminds you that you have to stop and listen. Kiss like the Maoris do. Smell armpits. Make laway bubbles. Reminds you that your biggest mistake will cause you a lot of things (good riddance), but the ones that are important, will remain the same (thank God).
And in all things—even if that "all" isn't much—I give thanks.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
But why?
"Mommy, do you love my Daddy?"
I started my day with vomit. Lucia nudged me awake and said, "Mommy, I'm going to be sick." And then she puked all over my shirt. After, we were lying down on the bed—new sheets, new clothes, both of us smelling of soap—whispering odd nothings and then she fell back asleep.
I looked at her face and remembered a time when I would panic at the slightest sneeze, a weird sounding cough, a rash. Now, when something like this happens, I am suddenly the epitome of expertise and nonchalance:
I started my day with vomit. Lucia nudged me awake and said, "Mommy, I'm going to be sick." And then she puked all over my shirt. After, we were lying down on the bed—new sheets, new clothes, both of us smelling of soap—whispering odd nothings and then she fell back asleep.
I looked at her face and remembered a time when I would panic at the slightest sneeze, a weird sounding cough, a rash. Now, when something like this happens, I am suddenly the epitome of expertise and nonchalance:
- Oh, she puked liquid-y phlegm, not food. The vomit doesn't even smell sour. She's fine. I should teach her how to expectorate.
- I should teach her the word "expectorate".
- Oh, I think Gaston (from Beauty and the Beast) already did that.
- She's sleeping again. I should try to sleep again, too.
- Do we have enough food in the freezer to last till Saturday?
She woke up a few hours later to puke again. We stayed in bed after, again, but stayed awake. And that's when she asked the question.
I was suddenly the epitome of panic and fear and...righteous anger, I'm gonna say?
Mommy, do you love my Daddy?
... (...)* ((...))** (((...)))*** No.
But why?
...Because I love myself now.
Can I still love Daddy?
Of course.
I love you.
I love you.
*Will I tell her the truth? CAN SHE HANDLE THE TRUTH?!?!?!
**I should probably just use the whole "in a different way" template. All single parents do, right?
***Damnit, I'm just going to tell her the truth.
She let the futility of my answer pass, but I expect more probing questions in the future.
I'm just doing the best I can, you know?
For now, my darling, know that there is a wealth of meaning behind that brevity. And a whole lot of love.
There is nothing but love, actually. For me. For you. Always for you.
And then I vomit.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Children
She wanted me to sit by the stairs as she played with the other kids all by herself. I could hear her talk to the other kids and most of them ignored her. They were mostly 7 and 8 and 9, and they spoke Tagalog fluently. ("Ba't may baby dito?" "Ayoko dyan, English!")
I stayed away, dear reader. I stayed away.
There were three who knew Lucia, though, and I could hear them talking to her (in English). She would peek from around the corner, to make sure I was still there. Still far away. But still there. She waved and smiled. "I'm okay, Mama!"
One of the meaner kids said, "May mumu dyan!" (I STAYED AWAY!) One of the boys (Arvi—the one who knows Darth Vader, remember him?) pulled Lucia aside and said, "There's no such thing. Don't believe him."
Another boy, Axl (also a regular playmate) said, "Come on, Lucia, Arvi and will play with you in your house."
Lucia said, "Okay. How about the other children? Do they want to play, too?" (She called them "children"—the same way an adult would.)
And I—the adult—said, "I don't like them. They can all go away." (And they did.)
God bless my darling's kind heart, but this mother will only take so much. Besides, I was good, I stayed away (for as long as I could).
The boys have left, leaving behind a mess. "Sorry for the mess," she said. And kissed me on the nose.
I stayed away, dear reader. I stayed away.
There were three who knew Lucia, though, and I could hear them talking to her (in English). She would peek from around the corner, to make sure I was still there. Still far away. But still there. She waved and smiled. "I'm okay, Mama!"
One of the meaner kids said, "May mumu dyan!" (I STAYED AWAY!) One of the boys (Arvi—the one who knows Darth Vader, remember him?) pulled Lucia aside and said, "There's no such thing. Don't believe him."
Another boy, Axl (also a regular playmate) said, "Come on, Lucia, Arvi and will play with you in your house."
Lucia said, "Okay. How about the other children? Do they want to play, too?" (She called them "children"—the same way an adult would.)
And I—the adult—said, "I don't like them. They can all go away." (And they did.)
God bless my darling's kind heart, but this mother will only take so much. Besides, I was good, I stayed away (for as long as I could).
The boys have left, leaving behind a mess. "Sorry for the mess," she said. And kissed me on the nose.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Compassion and Empathy
Just a few hours ago, I had lunch with the yaya who took care of me and my siblings for about 6 years or so. This was during most of the 90s, so she had front row seats to the show that was my teenage angst. Wew. While we were talking about this and that, she said, "Parang bumait ka, a."
For some reason, I've been getting that a lot lately. And no, it isn't because I'm fantastically nice now. It's because I was THAT messed up before. Recently, I explained to some fairly new friends that I wasn't always like this. Things were very, very different before.
Another friend asked why and how I've mellowed so much. I told her that I had been through hell and back and that I literally almost died. Basically, I've been living my second life since 2012, and I am much more appreciative of what I have now. There are times when I feel like reverting to states of mind and being that nearly destroyed me, but the tug passes. Not without much effort, but it passes.
I am in that weird space right now, remembering that year (as well as the year that just passed), and I'm in a muddy mix of emotions. Mostly because I saw this video shared on my newsfeed:
My emotions are weird because, I can intellectually remember being sad and alone and ashamed. But I don't emotionally remember them anymore. At least not as much as I can feel how much happier I am right now. Don't get me wrong, I still remember the shame all too vividly. But I don't really feel the shame as intensely now.
Interestingly, when I think about that year, I don't remember the sadness or the fear or any of that. I remember the things that got me through.
So much of what Monica Lewinsky said resonated with me, but of all the things she said, this was my favorite: "Shame cannot survive empathy".
And, like she said, this empathy can come from anywhere.
Aside from love from my family and friends (my goodness, my family and friends, THANK YOU), what buoyed me were the many private messages that near-strangers sent to me. I mean, I received messages of hope and encouragement and prayer and outright love from people I wasn't even close to. From people who didn't even know the whole story. I had people telling me about how other people were praying for me. It was amazing.
Meanwhile, some people whom I thought were really good friends—and I mean, REALLY good friends—kept away. Remained silent. Waited for me to reach out. They wanted to remain neutral, they said. Nailang daw sila. (Sorry that my misfortune made you ilang. Hay.)
They are no longer my friends. I cut all ties with them. And that's okay, I wish them well. I have already been blessed by so many with so much.
I've been pretty okay, actually. In fact, I dare say: I'm pretty happy. (Eek!) Ugh, someone actually had the audacity to ask if I was dating again because I looked so happy. (Like it isn't possible to be happy on my own. Like it isn't possible to actually want to be alone. Oy.) It's scary sometimes, this happiness. Since I'm more in the manic portion of the spectrum, I have to keep checking if I'm being overly hyper again, if this happiness is mania.
(Like, I've been overly productive at work lately and because of what happened in the past, there was a moment where I was scared I was being manic again. I wasn't. I just really love what I do, haha!)
But everything's been steady. I take my meds like clockwork. I get lots of sleep. I laugh—genuinely—a lot. So I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. (I'm okay!)
I just want to say thank to everyone who has been kind to me. Thank you for your compassion. Your kindness and compassion make me want to be kind and compassionate, too. Maybe that's why I'm kinda more mabait now.
For some reason, I've been getting that a lot lately. And no, it isn't because I'm fantastically nice now. It's because I was THAT messed up before. Recently, I explained to some fairly new friends that I wasn't always like this. Things were very, very different before.
Another friend asked why and how I've mellowed so much. I told her that I had been through hell and back and that I literally almost died. Basically, I've been living my second life since 2012, and I am much more appreciative of what I have now. There are times when I feel like reverting to states of mind and being that nearly destroyed me, but the tug passes. Not without much effort, but it passes.
I am in that weird space right now, remembering that year (as well as the year that just passed), and I'm in a muddy mix of emotions. Mostly because I saw this video shared on my newsfeed:
My emotions are weird because, I can intellectually remember being sad and alone and ashamed. But I don't emotionally remember them anymore. At least not as much as I can feel how much happier I am right now. Don't get me wrong, I still remember the shame all too vividly. But I don't really feel the shame as intensely now.
Interestingly, when I think about that year, I don't remember the sadness or the fear or any of that. I remember the things that got me through.
So much of what Monica Lewinsky said resonated with me, but of all the things she said, this was my favorite: "Shame cannot survive empathy".
And, like she said, this empathy can come from anywhere.
Aside from love from my family and friends (my goodness, my family and friends, THANK YOU), what buoyed me were the many private messages that near-strangers sent to me. I mean, I received messages of hope and encouragement and prayer and outright love from people I wasn't even close to. From people who didn't even know the whole story. I had people telling me about how other people were praying for me. It was amazing.
Meanwhile, some people whom I thought were really good friends—and I mean, REALLY good friends—kept away. Remained silent. Waited for me to reach out. They wanted to remain neutral, they said. Nailang daw sila. (Sorry that my misfortune made you ilang. Hay.)
They are no longer my friends. I cut all ties with them. And that's okay, I wish them well. I have already been blessed by so many with so much.
I've been pretty okay, actually. In fact, I dare say: I'm pretty happy. (Eek!) Ugh, someone actually had the audacity to ask if I was dating again because I looked so happy. (Like it isn't possible to be happy on my own. Like it isn't possible to actually want to be alone. Oy.) It's scary sometimes, this happiness. Since I'm more in the manic portion of the spectrum, I have to keep checking if I'm being overly hyper again, if this happiness is mania.
(Like, I've been overly productive at work lately and because of what happened in the past, there was a moment where I was scared I was being manic again. I wasn't. I just really love what I do, haha!)
But everything's been steady. I take my meds like clockwork. I get lots of sleep. I laugh—genuinely—a lot. So I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. (I'm okay!)
I just want to say thank to everyone who has been kind to me. Thank you for your compassion. Your kindness and compassion make me want to be kind and compassionate, too. Maybe that's why I'm kinda more mabait now.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
For The Woman You Will Become
First, a statement:
I just had to let that off my chest.
I just had to let that off my chest.
Still I Rise
Maya Angelou, 1928 - 2014
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
//
All because of her.
For the woman she will become.
Happy International Women's Day.
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Beautiful
When I was young, I used to watch my mom, my Nana, and my Lola (great grandmother, in this case) put on cold creams and moisturizers. I soaked in their smells and watched their rituals with great wonder. Something about the whole process—the smells, the movements, the soft sounds—has always made me feel sleepy and warm and safe.
I am now old enough to (legitimately) worry about wrinkles. (And white hair. And an aching back. And wearing sensible shoes. And...) I've recently just established some sort of pattern that can now be called an actual skin regimen. Late to the party, but hurrah-hurrah.
Lucia watches me now, as I moisturize the heck out of my body in the hopes of getting rid of all the bad choices I've made. (Heh.) She now knows what bottle I reach for, how much moisturizer I put in my hand, even how long I massage my face. "Let me, Mommy!" as she hands over the toner. "I'll shake it, Mommy!" as she gives me the moisturizer. "I like this blue!" as she gives me my tub of Nivea cream. (Aside: This one is straight out of my childhood—all three aforementioned ladies used this, too).
I was running my fingers through my wet hair and she helped me with the tangles. Suddenly, she rested her face on my belly and said, "Your tummy is soft and your face is soft. Like me! You're so beautiful, Mommy. Am I beautiful, too?"
"Yes, my love. More beautiful than anything I've seen."
"I love you, Mommy. Do you love me, too?"
"More than anything now, then, or ever will be."
"I love our bellies, Mommy. We're so soft and beautiful."
Oh, my darling. I suppose I love my belly now, too. (Your soft belly, however, I love most absolutely.)
Some day, the world will tell you that you have to look a certain way to be pretty, my love. And it won't look anything like Mommy. But always remember this moment. You and I, we are beautiful. We are loved. Our love makes us beautiful.
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