Black Femmes

I went to an all-white catholic school from Kindergarten until 9th grade. At one point, there was a total of 7 black kids and 1 Indigenous kid attending my school simultaneously (including me). By the time I reached 7th grade, it was just me and one other POC in the entire school.

High school starts. I know no one because I’m not from the district. I’m pretty quiet, nerdy, glasses, books, EMO, and wore ‘really weird clothes’. We didn’t have money for Timberland boots or Coach or any of the cool clothes kids were wearing at the time.

But hey! There were more black kids in school now! I’ll be able to get to know more people like me! This is exciting, right? Except…. I don’t get to hang out with them. I sound white. I’m not black enough. I’m quiet. And I’m weird. So, never mind, I guess.  

Fast-forward to college. Same as high school, really. Not very many black girls to connect with, minus maybe handful? Not a TON of black folks at school and then I decide to leave the country and study abroad several times. Welp! ….. Moving on.  

Fast forward again to every corporate job I’ve had as an adult. I’m the only black person on team. Hmmm ok. So…… I ask myself, when is this connection with other like-minded POC supposed to happen? I thought that was supposed to be in my 20s!!!

Fast forward AGAIN to my 30s. Cool. I’m getting into my groove. I doin’ thangs. I’ve travelin’. I’m meeting knew people. I have a great group of friends………. But most of them are STILL white. (sigh) I get introduced to Black Burlesque and I’m losing it! I can’t believe I’ve finally found my people, omg!

After 30 years of waiting and wishing and crying and hoping and imagining and daydreaming, I finally get to make connections!!!

Record Scratch…. Now I’m too intimidating. Now I’m not approachable. I'm, like, "gaaaaahdamn lol".

Just this past weekend, I had so many folx I love and admire tell me the same thing before they know me. I’m not mad at their honesty one bit, but it still hurts. What have I done for that to be the default? Why would people assume that much? (Or is it the same perception that strong, black, queer women have had placed upon them by society that keeps us in that same spot? You know, the aggressive one. The angry one. The one with an attitude)

After working so hard to crawl out of the assimilation hole I was in for so long, I finally made my way back to being who I really am but I’m still so after making it to the other side.  

I will always give POC women more grace in this world. We go through so much just to be ourselves. We are profited off of at every term. The beauty we create, the culture we create, the style we influence is so often duplicated, but it never looks the same. We’re disrespected day in and day out by the world, yet we also still view each other as a threat or competition of some sort. I don’t want to compete with y’all. I did that in my early 20s before I knew better. 

I want to be your biggest cheerleader. Your biggest fan! I’ve never had that my entire life thus far and I still crave that so much in my adult life. I don’t know how many times I’ve cried thinking about these imaginary road trips and slumber parties and adventures I’ve always wanted to go on with really amazing women. It’s finally, slowly starting to happen, but dang. Where y’all at?

And when will the rest of ya’ll join me?

Made it to September

 Made it to September, thankfully. A lot has happened since the last time I wrote. 

Loss of old friends, Jess got covid, I got hired on full-time, my show is currently scheduled for October and everything feels like it's going a mile a minute. I'm still in the process of grieving and making sense of everything, but I guess that's better than nothing. And while self-harm is sometimes in my mind, or worse, I'm here. 

I made it to September. 

I'm weirdly also feeling okay about how things are shaking out. I'm just settling into myself more, maybe. I'm accepting that I'm not perfect, but I try really hard to be myself and BE there for others. Sometimes I fall short, but it's not from a lack of trying. 

I'm ready to look to the future. I'm not ignoring the past, but I don't that trauma to completely inform my decisions going forward. I want to live in the present and trust that what will be for me will be. 

I believe there are those, living and otherwise, that know my heart and I find relief and comfort in that. 

I'm grateful for being here right now, through the pain and everything else in between. I'm grateful for life continuing to teach me lessons and allow me to move forward. 

Cosplacon

 Welp. This past weekend was Cosplacon in Jefferson City, Missouri. Yes, that's right. The famous Jefferson City that everyone talks about and wants to visit. I got there Friday evening, after deciding to "quit" working around 1:30 pm. To be fair, it wasn't really my decision, but more so the only option I had. 

The VPN for work went down and pretty much stayed down the rest of the day. Anyway. 

I got to Jefferson City around 6pm. Show didn't start 'til after 10 so I figured I had enough time to get my bearings and then figure my life out. I did. I get dressed, I put on a 5 o'clock shadow. I go out. I wait to perform. I talk to no one, or rather, no one really talks to me. Some of the anxiety I used to feel before performing has returned. 

But this time, it felt different. It was crippling. It didn't distract me. It didn't tear me away from my focus. Instead, I took a deep breathe (or 30), got on the stage, and fucking killed it. I killed it. I did. Mr. Garvey KILLED. 

I walked around the audience yelling at white people and got paid for it. 

You know, 'til this day, I'm never 100% sure if people enjoy what I'm doing as much as they do, but I know that whatever I do, it will be my best. It will be full of energy and passion and focus and spirit. And, thankfully, someone else will tell me later that people enjoyed my performance. 

Saturday night rolls around and, Jesus, I have a lot of props for those two acts (Dark Phoenix and Yoko Kurama). But it was all worth it. I know my nerds. I know what they like. Whips? Yes. LED whips? Yes. Fan Veils? Of course! Isis wings? AB-SO-LUTELY. I know what I'm doing. And just writing this reminds me to trust in my experience. 

Speaking of which.....

My 7-year anniversary just past a few weeks ago. Like, that's closer to 10 years than I can believe sometimes. But it's 7 years, nonetheless. I thought I would have accomplished more by now, but I think that's me just being hard on myself. I think that's me comparing my journey and my experience with people I don't even really know. I think that's me ignoring the fact that so much privilege and the right circumstances come into play when it comes to shit like this. 

I didn't even have really have money for costumes a handful of years ago. Now I have a mortgage and am saving up for a fucking motorcycle. I'm not even the same person anymore, let alone my situation. I have to remember that and keep that in the forefront as I continue to grow. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. That's the only way.

And believing in myself. And who I am. And my talents. And what I can accomplish. I can do ANYTHING in life I want. I just have to remember that I can. Nothing can stop me except myself. 

That goes with this festival, as well. As much as I really wanted to produce a festival starting next year, I talk to Paul about it and he thought it might be too stressful and too soon. But maybe this is a perfect opportunity to really become a household name here in my city and expand from there. Maybe starting produce regularly is the experience and practice I need before shooting all the way to the top. Maybe I can't have everything I want right away, but this will help me get there. 

My sun sign is on fire right now and my rising sign in Pisces is all over the place. But the Taurus in me is remember to be realistic. I think I'll listen to the Taurus in me for now. Planting the seeds... Yea. 

Producing

 I've made the decision that I want to start producing again. I want to create a platform, a stage (have you) that allows other people to share their art with the rest of Saint Louis. There are so many artists in Saint Louis that people never see, not because they're not good, but because this community has the habit of curtailing the opportunities of so many. It sucks. 

It sucks so much and I know what that feels like personally, so much so that I finally shared my experiences with Lola Van Ella. I shared it with the world. I made the post public. I put it on IG. I needed to get rid of the stench that was on me for the longest time. I needed to free myself from the invisible chains that were holding me hostage. I wanted to push through the fear of what would happen next in order for me to be in a space where I could accept the good things that are to come. 

Not surprisingly, I'm not feeling the love or support from Saint Louis, from other producers, or from other POC who know of my experience. And while that's not okay, I'm not sad. I'm just disappointed. What this experience has taught me is that, regardless of how low others may choose to go, I am better than that. I'm better than the environment I have been immersed in for so long. 

 I held on to so much for nearly 4 years. I stayed silent about so much and harm that was caused to me. I'm going to breathe through this one. I need to be gentle to myself and take my time.

I deserve this. 

Why are ya'll surprised?

Congress completes electoral count and Pence (of all people) announces Biden's victory.

It's so interesting to see so many people, including lawmakers, being surprised by the mayhem and chaos that has ensued at and inside of the Capital yesterday. What about this is surprising when Trump made it clear that he had no plans to concede? What is surprising about this when he made it clear that he wanted people to show up and 'walk over' to the Capital on the date he confirmed to protest? Ya'll are so weird. 

Why are ya'll clutching yo pearls when people stormed the building with riot gear, confederate flags and no masks like they have done so many times before in support of this 'man'? Why are you surprised when everything that has been said and done by this "President" in the last 4 years has fueled by hate, bigotry, racism, and white supremacy? Why are you surprised by the violence that ensued? 

More than 52 people were arrested with 47 of those arrest for CURFEW VIOLATIONS. 

I've moved past the state of anger because anger, for me, is associated with surprise and disbelief. Nothing about this is new. The banality of it all is what makes it exhausting. I've reached a point in my life as a black, queer person that I'm not going to spend any of my precious energy and life force arguing with people who have just simply refused to move out of what they know or acknowledge the VERY CLEAR privilege for what it is. 

What I can tell you is that if it were Black folks or brown folks protesting out there, there would have been blood. People who have been shot and killed, even for peacefully protesting. Even without doing something as ludicrous as storming the building. But I digress. I hope this is the only time I feel the need to talk about this man, this administration, or this presidency as a whole. 

This is a culmination of everything we already saw coming.

And that's why I need a tripod.

 I'm an artist. I'm a dancer. I love music. Music moves me. And when I dance, I feel connected to people and places and things. When I dance, I like to record, not for praise or compliments, but because it's something that I genuinely enjoy and allows me the opportunity to relive those moments of movement in my life. 

So today, I recorded. 

Over. 

And over. 

And over. 

And over. 

And. 

Over. 

AND. 

Over. 

And Over again. 

Just to not get it right every time because my phone wouldn't focus. Or because the lighting was terrible. I thought maybe by switching up my lighting with both lamps, I might find a solution. So THEN I tried recording with just one of my other lamps on one side of the room, with both lights on. But then that didn't work either because then there was a ton of glare in the background. Then I tried turning off one of the two lights on the lamps. Still didn't work. After that, I did the same combinations with the lamp on the OTHER side of the room. Still didn't work. 

Oh, I forgot to mention that positioning my phone to fit the right frame for recording is another beast all together. First, I tried it landscape on the floor. Then portrait. Then I put it on a chair, but then I couldn't see the floor anymore. Then I attempted to put it on top of another small box so that I could get more in the shot. The color started to change. I attempted to then put it in the window sill. Too far away. No box nor chair no window sill now random corner made this situation any better. 

I, for the longest time, couldn't bring myself to prioritize getting equipment for recording. It felt frivolous. Unnecessary. A waste of time and money. Vain, even. Then I simply tried to record a 1 minute video for myself to watch and couldn't see shit in 98% of the ones I recorded. Not having access to and/or not having the tools I need to do simple remedial tasks is just more time-consuming and frustrating in the long run. I'm finally learning to prioritize myself and what I need to improve and reach my goals. 

And that's why I need a tripod. 

Affirmations

Man, I think I realized something else that makes me so different from my wife. I give compliments. I receive compliments. I LOVE compliments. I love affirmations. I enjoy amplifying my life for someone and who they are and what they are accomplishing with affirming words. I love to boost someone's joy with one extra snap. Or "Biiiiiiitch". Or "yeeeAAAASSSsssuh". Or... you get the idea. 

My wife doesn't come so quickly with compliments. Or affirmations. Or things that I normally rely on receiving from other people. Maybe that's why I post when I do. I know that I'm feeling good and I look good when I feel good. I look happy when I feel good. Maybe I want someone other than me to acknowledge that and make note of that. I want to also share in this joy and happiness with someone else.

But I can't do that with her. 

Is that why it is sometimes hard for me to love without restraint? Because I sometimes don't feel like I receive love in all of the ways that make me happy? Maybe. Who knows? We've talked about it once or twice... or thrice. And the answer is always the same. "I'm not used to that/ I have a hard time with that". 

But why?

Why is that so hard to do? With it being something so ingrained in my life, I have difficulty relating and an even harder time letting it go. It feels personal, though I know it is not. I noticed that I still have a challenge disregarding it or letting it go. 

Maybe it's time to revisit that conversation. 

Who wants to be wrong? I do.

Wanting to be wrong is one of the most exhausting, taxing, burdensome ways to exist. Wanting to be wrong about your assumptions is problematic because that indicates that you are experiencing mental acrobatics to reason why you're wrong as opposed to trusting yourself. It forces you to cast doubt on your instincts and your lived experience. 

Wanting to be wrong is what I do every single day. 

I want to be wrong about Covid statistics, but I trust and believe in science. I want to be wrong about the effects of systemic racism on my body, but I live in this body every day, and I know how excruciating it can be at times. I want to be wrong about people and their intentions, but I've heard and experienced it all before, several times over. I was left me high and dry and a hurt, disrespected person.  

Living that truth is one of the most powerful acts I can do. Living my truth does more than just allow me the opportunity to settle into who I am becoming. It gives me solace. It contributes to my survival. 

I should be thankful for this gift. 

It just wouldn't hurt to be surprised every once in a while. 

FlightSafety International

 FlightSafety International. 

A job I kept between 2010-2013. It was a sweet little gig as far as first corporate-level jobs go, I guess. But I did have a ghastly uniform. 

Anyway. 

This job came at the perfect time. I had just finished school the summer before, we were in a Depression (per usual) and I was ready to move out of my parent's house again. At the time, I was a full-time server and had probably 2 or 3 other jobs like I always did. I was a hustler. Honestly. But I was also ready to not spend every waking hour working at 1 or 3 or 5 different establishments. I took a chance. I signed a lease without a FT job and I went for it. Same week as signing my lease, I got the job as a CSR at FlightSafety. I

I couldn't believe it! Now I better know and understand what happens when you trust in the universe. (But that's a story for another day)

I start the job and, like pretty much every other job, it's actually full of racism. I should have known that it would also be misogynistic like every other older corporation. First of all, we had the uniforms we had. Second, our customers and clients are pretty much ALL male pilots, 90% of them white. Third, PILOTS. Military people. AmerrikkkA people. You see what I'm getting at? Yeah. Never would've thought about any of that. 

But what's funny is that the racism that I actually experience wasn't really even from any of them. It was from the women I worked with. And the bosses. First experience was once I got my hair done for work. It wasn't anything particular but I got it straightened. At the beginning of a team meeting, they not only pointed it out, but compared me to some sort of old doll that you could pull the hair out further from the scalp? It's called the Crissy Doll and it is from the '60s. The 60s!

I literally sat there and cried in that meeting. While being disrespected, I felt like I still had to explain why my hair was longer NOW than it had appeared a week before. Or a month before. Or while in a different style. Omg. I'm already exhausted just thinking about the mental and emotional acrobatics that I was probably doing at that time. Holy shit. 

Anyway. I ended up transferring to a different FlightSafety in West Palm Beach, Florida in 2012.

TERRIBLE. IDEA. CUZ FLORIDA. 

Things start off okay and quickly go left, not just at work but because I fucking moved to Florida. Only one person I met my age was in school. Everyone else was just.... there? Kind of Living. 

How? I don't know, actually. Didn't seem like anyone was really working ever. Lotta coke. Lotta drinking. (shrugs) It was a terrible time for my mental health, too. 

At one point, my roommate went to jail and I had to take care of his dog and... You know what? I'll hold onto that for now. 

Back to what I was saying.

I knew I was in the wrong state because, at one point, I was having a discussion about whether evolution is even REAL with one of my coworkers. WUT? Probably the same person who doubts science right now. 

You know something I just realized? The same reason I cried in STL is the same reason (well, one of several) I cried and want to leave FlightSafety: My Hair. 

I started transitioning not long after moving to Florida. I was in the in-between stages of natural and relaxed hair. Not long after starting, the Center Manager over everyone comes out of his office, looks at me and says, "Hey, your hair looks nice. I think it'll look more professional if it were straight, though."

OH. MY. GOD.

OH MY GAWD!!!!

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, DUDE.

FlightSafety, man. 

They clearly have a thing against black hair. 

This is just 2 instances of probably hundreds or thousands of instances that reinforced the idea that my natural hair and black hair, in general, is unacceptable. Some days I can't believe that I made it to the other side of all of these lived experiences. Clearly not unscathed, cause that's not even humanly possible. But still! How did I make it? I think one answer may be the natural, instinctual resistance that lives inside of me. 

My reply to my boss was, "I think it looks really nice and professional". And I left it at that. 

I remember consistently taking bathroom selfies of all the styles I put my hair in while I was on my transitioning journey. I'm so glad I took them. Otherwise, I might've forgotten where I've been and how far I've come. 

Anyway. Fuck FlightSafety. 

Gran and Papi

 I know I've talked about this a little bit here and there for some time. But I think I actually need to TALK about it. Or, in this case, write about it. 

I miss my grandfather so much. Papi was his name. He and my living grandmother, Gran, lived across the street from me my entire childhood. Only difference is that my living grandmother still lives there. But I don't really acknowledge that because we don't have a relationship and haven't in years. I remember all of the times that she put me down (maybe even unconsciously or unintentionally) as a child. Skin color was HUGE in that household and I knew that I wasn't seen as beautiful the older I got. The conversation was always centered around "good hair" and light skin. 

Man, I knew then what I know now. About colorism.

But I didn't. Even my sister, who is extremely light-skinned, felt her slighting after some time. Like this one time... My sister was graduating from college and she was the only person NOT invited to her graduation lunch that my grandmother hosted. I remember this clear as day. We were in my sister's then Mitsubishi Eclipse (Gawd, I loved that car. So much I bought it from her) crying our eyes out with our little cousins in the back seat over the situation. I remember us all being really confused and sad and not understanding why someone would do that to someone they loved... intentionally. 

Was my grandmother held accountable? No. And I think that's the theme here. I, like everyone else, wanted to believe that it was a mistake. But with her being the 'matriarch' of my father's side, she didn't have to take responsibility. Boundaries weren't thing and people do what she says because she has money. 

But then there's me. 

I don't give a fuck how much money you have. You're not going to talk to me any kind of way. You're not going to look at me any kind of way. You're not going to treat me any kind of way. Because I set boundaries, I stick to them, and I hold people accountable to what my boundaries are. If you don't like it, you just aren't in my life anymore. And now we arrive at our crux. My grandmother has never called me since I stopped talking to her years ago. For homophobic remarks. For colorist conversations. For being in the wrong and never owning up to her shit. For treating my SISTER like shit. And now that I'm at a place to process it, for treating ME like shit. (My mom told her about it all) She treated me badly. PERIODT! She treated me like I was a red-headed step child. She treated me like I had no value. She treated me in a way that made me feel anything but loved. 

I began to notice it once my grandfather died. And I think that is where the correlation lies, between these two events. I stopped feeling loved when Papi was gone. And I think that makes me miss him even more than I already did. Sometimes I cry about it while still confused about why it hurts so much. I think I've finally figured it out. 

My mom and I had a conversation a number of years ago about why I don't try and speak to her or break bread with her. I told her that I don't have anything to say and it's not my responsibility to build a bridge with someone who has shown no interest in doing the same. (This is when I was first really starting to understand and build upon my own boundaries) I told her that if she felt there was something she said or did that hurt me, she needed to be mature enough (Cause she damn sure is OLD ENOUGH) to address it like adults should be able to. I wanna say that this was at least 5 or 6 years ago. Maybe more. Has that happened?

No. 

At least not yet. 

Will it ever happened?

Who knows?

But you know what I do know? I won't be kissing anyone's ass just to POSSIBLY get money from a will like some folks I know. (And, yes, this is all shade)

If the day comes where I decide that I want to mend things without being prompted, I will. 

In the meantime, I'm going to work on visiting the ancestral guides to get closer to Papi. 

Imagine being 8 years old and being asked about the OJ Simpson Trial

Imagine being 8 years old and being asked about the OJ Simpson Trial. I was 8 years old the year the famous, or infamous, trial happened. 

"What grade is that?", I ask myself as I stare up at the ceiling and the smoke detector that still needs a fucking battery. Eye. Roll. Anyway. 

I don't think I realized how weird it was to be one of the only, or sometimes, the absolute only, black girl in my class between the school years of Kindergarten and 8th grade. Jesus. That's more to process... Hmph. 

ANYWAY. 

A lot of now seemingly weird things happened during my time at Little Flower of Saint Theresa. One such thing would be sitting in Geography class and someone intentionally saying, "The Nigger River?" and then turning straight to me with an intentional glare. Yeah, that shit was definitely intentional. But did a learning lesson happen at that point? Nah. Of COURSE not. Why would any Catholic nun in 1994 take a moment to discuss race relations?

I just remember what feelings I had at that moment which were, and are, like so many I would feel after that moment. Alone. Hurt. Disrespected. And no one else around me would or could really understand why.

But back to my story. 

The trial had been going on and I, of course, didn't REALLY understand how serious or monumental it was at the time, probably because I was ONLY 8 YEARS OLD. 

But then the trial was finally over and I'm assuming the announcement was made sometime in the morning or right before our lunch break at school. I just remember being let out for Recess and being pulled aside as everyone else was allowed to pass by me and through the two metal doors. I can't remember if it was the principal or one of the nuns, but what I DO distinctly remember is my name being called and me stopping in my tracks. "Shara! Guess what?! OJ Simpson was found not guilty." I vaguely remember hearing about the case, but I was a child and had more important things to focus on... like video games, and boys, and girls, and my Nano Pet and my real pet. Then this person followed up with a, "Aren't you happy? Aren't you glad?"

Why the fuck would an 8-year old girl know or care about a fucking murder case? Like... What in the actual fuck is that about?

Now that I'm older, I understand. The question was not completed. What they meant to say was "Aren't you glad one of your own got away with it?" or "Aren't you glad he got lucky?" They're synonymous to me, but.....

Anyway, that's my story. Maybe one day I'll talk about how I wanted to become a nun. 

Zoom Funerals

I don't think the thought ever crossed my mind that I would be attending funerals via Zoom in my lifetime for any reason. I never thought I would have to say goodbye to friends and family via a web browser. I never thought I would lose someone I cared about during this time and pandemic because of drug addiction. But here we are. 

His name was Alex Chirchirillo. He was a good friend of mine that I had known for a very long time, since high school to be exact. Alex always had a special place with me, not just because neither of us were popular, but because his smile could light up a room and his laugh would make that room shine even brighter. He could always make me smile. He could always make me laugh. He could always make me feel safe, no matter where we were or what we were doing. 

We may have been a little sweet on each other, too. 

Either way, I had love for him and that beautiful heart of his. I remember the last time I saw him. I believe that I was wrapping up undergrad at Webster at the time. An old mutual friend of ours was throwing a house party and I stopped by. He was there, chillin' on the couch. I remember walking in and seeing his face, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, per usual. His eyes lit up when he saw me and I have no doubt that my response was quite similar. We sat. We chatted. We joked like always. It was like time hadn't moved and changed him. He was still as sweet as I could remember. We kissed. We were in our own little world, unbothered by everything happening around us. Then, suddenly, our world was interrupted once again as more people entered the room and changed the vibe. Sigh. 

"Short-lived, but exciting", I remember thinking. I wish we had more time to spend with each other that day, but as more Clayton people poured in that I didn't know or recognize, the less comfortable I was feeling. 

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that I had heard from Chich (that's what we all call him) via Facebook. And this is where guilt starts to seep in. I was phasing FB out at the time, so I didn't give the friend request much attention, knowing that I was getting ready to leave it all behind me. In my mind, I think I assumed that I would have time to let him know that I wasn't on FB anymore and to connect with me directly or to take my deets or connect with me on Insta or maybe one of the new social networks I was testing or SOMETHING.

But those are words that were never said. Those are actions that weren't taken and now my friend is dead and gone. 

It was last week when another FB friend reached out to me via messenger and said, "Hey Shara... I'm sorry to be so late with this news but, in case you haven't heard yet, Alex Chirchirillo passed away Friday night." That's when he told me that he had been struggling with drug addiction for some time. I know it's ridiculous to blame myself, but what if.... what if I was supposed to talk to him and I didn't take the time to do so yet? What if I missed the opportunity to connect or to help or, I don't know, to BE THERE for him when he needed someone the most?

Fuck... 

And this came just days after processing new trauma that I didn't know that I had. 

Fuck...

Grief and guilt can eat you alive if you let it. I limit my guilt to a few weeks. Grief is gonna last forever anyway. 

With that being said, don't wait to tell people that you love them and that you care about them. Don't leave words unsaid that you want to say. 

You truly don't know the next opportunity you will have to do it.

6 Miles

6 miles. It takes 6 miles to go from my house to Tower Grove Park and back to my house. 6 miles. 

6 miles was the minimum I road on a good day with great weather and high spirits. 6 miles was the distance that could take me from depressed to living, loving, and appreciating life again.

6 miles got me into a different kind of shape. 

6 miles took away all the worries in the world for 30-40 minutes of my day. At least. 

I never thought I'd see the day that I'd still be outside on a bike in what feels like LATE fucking fall. But here we are. 

And here I am. Here I am appreciating the few good days left we have every week. Because I know what comes
next. And I'm trying to prepare my mind, my body, AND MY SOUL. I had never done the last one before, but it already "hit different". 

Anyway. That's it. 

(P.S. I can finally see why my men's pants are too small in the thighs now)

Family

Family. 

What is the definition of family. If you look it up in a dictionary, it may say something similar to the following: "A group consisting of parents and children living together in a household" or "The basic unit in society traditionally consisting of two parents rearing their children". It is very RARELY explained as something other than blood, which explains why the use of it is oftentimes antiquated and outdated. Is family really just blood? No. But we all already knew that. 

We already knew that blood is not always thicker than water and that being related to someone doesn't mean that you have an obligation to stay connected, tolerate unacceptable behaviors, or not state your boundaries with them. All "family" doesn't act like family. They don't always show up or support you when you need it most, if they support you at all. But someone who has been there for me since I was a child is my Uncle Mike. Uncle Mike is my mom's brother, a tall, chocolate man with a bald head and deep voice to accompany. He was always smiling with his front gold tooth and hearty laugh. He always reminded me of the things that I loved most about visiting my cousins in the South, mainly in Mississippi and Memphis. None of mom's family came from money, but what they may have lacked in finances, they  made up in love and joy and peacefulness and spirit. I was rarely ever really bored when I visited and they always made me feel special, especially Uncle Mike. 

Two years ago, I married my wife and had no idea who would actually show up from my mom's side of the family. To my pleasant surprise, Uncle Mike was there. I know that my eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. I couldn't hide my excitement or keep my cool. I ran to him and hugged him and said, "I'm so happy you're here! Thank you for coming!". He looked down to me and said, "I wouldn't miss this for the world". In that moment, the little girl from my childhood took over and my eyes welled up with tears of joy. So cool, so calm, and so collected, he always stayed. I remember holding onto him so tightly and feeling his arms embracing me tightly, but with love. I was reminded of what love was in that moment, and all throughout that day. 

I sent Uncle Mike a birthday card today. Went to the post office, got stamps, the whole 9 yards. (I think sending letters and cards has been one of the most enjoyable things I've done since Quarantine started)

Every time I have felt the desire to dwell on "family" that is no longer a part of my life because of who I am in recent days, I've just reminded myself of the love that surrounds me everyday, up close and from afar. That's not to say that those stories aren't worth telling, but they're not worth telling today. 

Today is about family, REAL family. Not people you just happen to be related to. 

Ice Cube-inspired

In the voice of Ice Cube, "Today was a good day".

You know how it sometimes feels like the end of the world and you lose hope and your will to live an then something happens that snaps you out of it and reminds you that there is also still so much good in the world? And then you have those conflicting feelings about the future of the planet and life as you know it? Yeah. That was today. 

Like I said, today was a good day. 

Today was the day that I cleaned some of the house. I rode my bike with my wife. I spoke Japanese to myself a LOT (question and answer, cause who else do I have to talk to?). I painted the back deck and played crochet in Tower Grove Park with some of the queer fam. Oh! Also met an awesome, queer actor (Hey, Gretchen!) who stars in These/Them. 

I haven't laughed that hard and for that long in SO long. Between Hannah's impressions of all of us and Samati continuously yelling, "Yay, sports!"  and "Sports, yay!" I was entertained for a number of hours. Some folks are planning a camping/ hiking trip and I am happy for them. I am happy to see everyone continuing to move their bodies, not just their minds during this time. Our vessels need it. By 8:00, we were on our way home as the owls started to talk to each other and we were amazed by their mere existence and proximity above us. 

Jess and I rode our bikes home, just in time to feed Vino, make some noms (huevos rancheros) with a side of Glow Up, the British Makeup Competition. I love. I LOVE! Anyway, I'm going to leave this as is. 

Today was a good day.