between the lines.

28. Black. Incorrigible. Attorney | Advocate | Activist

[goosegrewup]

$900 could’ve changed his life. Or saved it.

On the third anniversary of the death of Kalief Browder, I am led to “do the numbers”.

16 years old.

3 years in Rikers.

14 months in solitary confinement.

1 charge.

In 1 of only 2 states that automatically charge minors as adults at the age of 16.

12 days after his 22ndbirthday, Kalief Browder took his own life in the bedroom of his Bronx, New York home. While his classmates attended their high school prom and graduation, Kalief Browder was incarcerated for three years of his life for a crime he did not commit because he was unable to pay his $900 bail.

It’s a story I just cannot stop telling. A 16-year old is picked up off of the street and charged with stealing a bookbag. He is sent to Rikers Island and given a $3,000 bond and a public defender. The prosecution’s case is paper thin. They have no evidence tying the teen to the crime. Their only witness has fled the country.

As a result of numerous frivolous extensions, back-to-back vacations, and neglect on the behalf of both the defense and the prosecution, this teen serves three years in jail simply awaiting trial. He is physically abused (on camera) by staff members and fellow inmates, landing him in solitary confinement “for his protection” for 14 consecutive months. He consequently undergoes several suicide attempts before all charges are dismissed and he is therefore released.

In anticipation of having to return back to court for an unrelated hearing, he takes his own life at the age of 22. Kalief Browder’s story has all the components of a horror movie, whilst being the realest story of our time.

The story alone is heart-wrenching, but the reality is---the real pain lies in his photographs.

I have told this story on every elevator, in every scholastic assignment, and in every grocery store line since I heard it. Not once have I done so without googling Kalief’s photos for them to see.

All of them.

I start with the all pictures of him showing all of his teeth, throwing his head back in laughter. My audience will tilt their head to the side and place their hand over their heart, because Kalief Browder’s smile touches you deep down in places happiness has never been.

I continue to tell them how jail, mental health struggles, inadequate defense, over-prosecution, poverty, and the State of New York’s Criminal Justice System took Kalief Browder’s smile away from him. From his mother. From his siblings. From us all.

Then I show them this one.

By far, the most prolific victim photo I have come across in my short time of interacting with the Criminal Justice System. Kalief’s eyes in this photo tell his story better than I could ever attempt to.

Kalief Browder is absolutely a victim of every constitutional crime but the one that sent him to jail. This is the background on my computer screen. This is the face on my favorite shirt.

This is undoubtedly the best [read: worst] representation of the status quo of the criminal justice system in America and the face of the lives we lose to it every day.

This is the face of injustice. This is the face of not doing your job. This is the face of criminalizing being poor. This is the face of sentencing before conviction. And there are still thousands of faces out there in the same predicament.

As a future attorney and current activist, I look at this photo every day as a reminder of all the Kalief Browder’s that are still alive, incarcerated, and able to be saved. Many metropolitan cities such as Atlanta, GA have even enacted new legislation allowing low-level offenders to forego cash-bails for non-violent charges, facing threats of civil suits against the city for the pre-conviction jailing of the poor.

“On any given day, 60 percent of the U.S. jail population is composed of people who are not convicted but are being held in detention as they await the resolution of their charge,” a JusticePolicy.orgarticle quotes.

The reality is, freedom can be bought. Wealth-based detention has transformed “justice” into a privilege, instead of a right. Justice was a privilege that Kalief Browder was not given access to in any of the three years he spent behind bars.

Kalief Browder’s face will eternally be the most honest reminder of the brutal reality of our “Justice System” and the lack thereof. Our justice system cost Kalief Browder his life, literally. There is no justice in that at all.

I always end the story by asking my audience to “do the numbers”.

On this third anniversary of Kalief Browder’s death, we remember every one of the three years that the State of New York stole from him. We remember ever degree he will never get. We remember every smile we will never get to see and every laugh his family will never get to hear.

Do the numbers for Kalief Browder and every individual like him. And never forget.

05/25/1993. 16. 05/29/2013. 3. 06/06/2015. 22…

[goosegrewup]

“In my bag”. Literally.

I missed therapy last week because I was “having a good week” and “didn’t want to ruin it”. Hence why I am in intensive therapy to begin with.

Now, I’m sitting in the middle of my kitchen next to a stack of cases, trying to write a Legal Answer for work, whilst crying all over my keyboard. [I’m always crying.]

…Except I can’t clearly explain exactly WHY I’m crying tonight.

WHEN I CAN’T EXPLAIN MYSELF, MY THERAPIST ALWAYS TELLS ME TO START WITH SINGLE WORDS.

If I had to start somewhere tonight, I’d say “overwhelmed”. Summer is finally here, and while I am happy to be able to spend so much time with my kid, the “school is out” honeymoon phase with her has already run its course. Plus, summer isn’t as fun when gas is damn near $3 a gallon and your mother is a 28-year old unpaid intern. That’s still a joke, in itself…

Nevertheless, she makes my coffee every morning and she is finally old enough to wash the dog by herself, and for that, I’m grateful.  

Then, there’s my amazing boyfriend. Our relationship has been eerily perfect since our latest reunion. We just celebrated our [fake] one-year anniversary last week because who counts breakups anyways?

Truth be told, our last breakup was so taxing that we both elected to commit to individual AND couple’s therapy to give us more tools as we rebuild. It’s been mind-blowingly satisfying. So good, I missed therapy last week and now I’m in my kitchen “boo-hoo” crying over a bag.

“It’s not about the bag”, I kept screaming at him…[as every overly-emotional girlfriend does when her boyfriend asks her what the real issue is].

But, It’s not just any bag. It’s the bag I wanted. It’s the bag I verbally asked for when I struggle to verbally ask for anything ever.

I DON’T USUALLY STUTTER, BUT...

There are those of us who have no problem saying what we want from life. Then, there are those of us who just naturally live to serve others. I get so much joy from giving my last to someone else. [READ: I will be broke for the rest of my life] I watch my friends ask their significant others for everything: from $40 for a fill-in to $1200 Louboutins.

Meanwhile, I PHYSICALLY struggle to fix my mouth to say the words “I want…” or “I need…” to another human being unless it’s a sweet tea from McDonalds or a 2 for $5 slice of cake from the Publix bakery.

I’m sure this stems back to some childhood trauma I could’ve potentially worked through in the therapy sessions I keep skipping, but let’s continue.

So, I just had my law school graduation ceremony a few weeks ago. Law school was (and still is) the most trying feat I’ve ever took on. I am still in awe of how I’ve matriculated through it. I’ve spent the last few days mapping out deadlines and squeezing my budget.

$400 fee to complete the fitness application. $350 fee to apply to take the exam.

…and that’s just for one of the TWO states I’ll be testing in.

I’ve been SKRESSED.

BUT- I’ve also been incandescently proud of myself. I told myself, this one time, I wanted to have something to commemorate what I had accomplished and where I was going next.

This is worth celebrating, right?

Hence, the bag.

I wanted a leather carrying bag with my name engraved to carry into court. For some reason, in my mind, it was a symbol of progression and me finally trying to get my shit together…and finally having something to carry it all in. It meant something to me.

I can’t recall where the courage just appeared from that day, but I found remember scrolling on Amazon. I found the cutest, off-brand “pleather” bag for no more than $200. It. Let me engrave my name across the top and I. was already picturing exactly which pocket was going to carry my good pens. I copied the link and sent it to him that day.

“Baby. Pleeeeeeease please please please. Best graduation gift ever.”- the text read.

Who did I think I was…? Lol. I was out here sending purchase links and having expectations of others and shit. My god.

[In hindsight, I could’ve bought the bag myself. I wonder if it was really about the bag or just the idea of someone else thinking about me. So back to tonight…]

When I met my boyfriend, we had a running joke that his name was “Efficient Eldredge” because there was literally nothing he couldn’t execute on the fly. Whether it be last-minute, with little to no resources, and/or from scratch. He would get a text/call and his token one-word response was: “Done.”

Throughout the course of our relationship, I made it one of my goals to mirror that for him. I pride myself on listening intently for his needs (as well as the kid’s and the household’s) and being able to quickly execute…even with little to no instruction. I am the QUEEN on to-do lists and iPhone notes. My token response: “Got it.”

I’m talking 24-hour turnaround. Next-day shipping. Mmkay?

Tonight, he made a simple request for something he needed for work and I immediately hopped on Google for pricing. I jokingly mentioned to him how I was still waiting on my one request…as weeks were now passing.

He laughed nervously. I thought it was because he realized that so much time had passed. Then I watched his eyebrows go from “nervous laugh” to “wtf is she talking about”…swiftly.

It didn’t take us both long to realize that he had absolutely no clue what I was talking about.

My therapist told me to give myself a minute to process conflict, using a series of questions:

1.    Are you really mad? Is there good reason? 2.    Can you let it go? 3.    Are you really mad at the person in front of you? Or is it someone/thing else? 4.    Can you let it go?

I quickly ran through the questions in my head. “Yes, No, okay…maybe”, and ended up deciding that maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal and maybe I just needed a nap. I was tripping…

UPDATE: I WASN’T TRIPPING.

I woke up and my answers hadn’t changed. Yes, I was really mad. No, I couldn’t let it go. Yes, I deserved the cheap-ass bag I had asked for after all the groceries I had carried up three flights of stairs by myself for him. And all the times I stayed up late cutting up fruit for him to take to work. And all the times he waited until the day of to tell me a bill was due. And all the times I cooked AND washed the dishes after…

[Because these are the things that overly-emotional girlfriends start thinking about when they want to convince themselves that they put more physical and emotional effort into the relationship than their boyfriend does. Carry on…]

So, I’m in my bed FUMING. 

I could not, for the life of me, understand how I could remember all the things he told me he needed ON A DAILY BASIS…and he couldn’t even remember the ONE thing I asked for. 

“ALL THE THINGS I DO FOR HIM. ALL THE THINGS I BALANCE. YOU WOULD THINK HE WOULD BE THE LEAST BIT APPRECIA….”

[In reality, he’s a man.]

I constructed the argument in my head and waited for him to walk through the door. My proverbial guns were loaded for the minute he said something SLIGHTLY sideways, so I could fire away. I. WAS. READY.

We all know how that ended.

He left.

He thinks I’m crazy.

Even though it’s “not about the bag”, he’s thinking of how to buy the bag that I now told him I “don’t even want” although I really want it but I just don’t want to buy it myself because I want him to buy it even though I just told him I’ll buy it myself because I’m a strong, independent Black woman who don’t need no man.

…and now both of us are frustrated, annoyed, not speaking…and hungry.

[I’m so hungry. Someone please tell my boyfriend to feed me.]

Also, my therapist doesn’t answer the phone after 9.

OKAY, SO MAYBE I OVERDID IT.

           3. Are you really mad at the person in front of you? No. No, I’m not.

In all honesty, my boyfriend never tells me “no” and constantly goes out of his way to make me happy in every way possible.

Am I emotional because I feel disregarded and it’s an extremely familiar feeling to me? Absolutely. It was about the bag, but then again, it wasn’t. Yes, he had forgotten the BAG, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he had forgotten ME. That’s what hurt.

If I had to start with a single word to describe my childhood: “overlooked”. I was the kid who got straight A’s so often, I stopped getting rewarded. Good behavior and accomplishments were expected and I “wasn’t getting applauded for what I was supposed to be doing anyways”. I feel like I’ve been secretly celebrating my accomplishments for years now. I’m also hard-pressed to celebrate others, no matter how small the accomplishment.  

As an adult, I’ve comfortably settled into my role as “the strong friend”, because that’s all I’ve known. I imagine that followed me straight out of childhood, as well.

Then…every once in a while “Little Ashley” makes a guest appearance in my daily routine, always pining for the things she’s lacking. Attention. Acknowledgment. Praise. Love. If you’ve ever wondered where my affinity for children came from, just know I am constantly catering to the child inside of me who never got seen.

Therapy has been a great help in teaching me how to soothe “Little Ashley” and “Big Ashley” simultaneously. I’m sure it would be an even greater help if I actually went. 

Especially on nights like tonight.

“Little Ashley” came out in droves today, screaming and flailing her arms.

She had “did a thing” and no one had patted her on the back the way she asked them to. No one had remembered to say “Good job” in her love language. Everyone was just going on about their lives, nonchalantly, as they always had. I now realize it was “Little Ashley” who was in the kitchen crying over her keyboard tonight.

In short, today wasn’t about the bag.

It was about not knowing how to navigate through wanting to be celebrated, and not knowing how to ask for it. It was about my inability to maneuver through letting myself be vulnerable and direct, yet still assuming someone will “just know” how to love/appease me in the ways that I need them to. [Again, he’s a man].

“Big Ashley” has to realize that just because the love doesn’t always look the way she expects it to doesn’t make it invalid. Today was about ridiculous expectations, misdirected anger, and misplaced hurt.

My boyfriend is somewhere ordering the wrong bag and misspelling my name because I’ve made him feel like he doesn’t consider me enough. Let me call him and tell him what today was really about.

And let me schedule my therapy appointment for this week. And actually go.

And also, eat. You’re not yourself when you’re hungry.

*Pulls Up Amazon In Browser, Orders Bag*

“I hope you find someone who speaks your language so you don’t have to spend a lifetime translating your spirit...”. 

[goosegrewup]

Graduation Day: A Walk to Remember.

I was two hours late to my law school graduation.

I missed the entire graduation rehearsal. I had to fill in the phonetic spelling on my name card during the processional. I never even got a chance to take my class photo.

I was late to my graduation from law school because I spent four hours locked in my bathroom, crying in the palms of my hand.

IT WAS ALL GOOD A NIGHT AGO.

The night before graduation, I was on top of the world. My friends had driven as long as twelve hours and four states to be at my ceremony. My daughter spent the evening making signs to hold up for me in the crowd. My boyfriend had gone out of his way to make the weekend all about me. I had seven of my best friends, four kids, and two dogs all crammed into my 2-bedroom apartment. My kitchen counters were lined with red party cups and to-go food containers. My younger sister stayed out until the wee hours of the morning, grocery-shopping for my graduation breakfast. We had all the necessary ingredients for the weekend of my dreams.

I never actually ate my graduation breakfast because depression doesn’t allow you to acknowledge your appetite, nor your achievements. My boyfriend left that morning to get dressed for the ceremony. I clearly remember kissing him goodbye and poking my head out of my room to tell everyone that I was hopping in the shower and I’d be ready in 10.

10 minutes turned into 30, 30 into an hour, before they realized that I had never resurfaced from my “shower”. I could still hear the occasional banging on the door of my room and wiggling and jerking of the handle, over my wailing.

Unfortunately, it was too late. I had already planted myself on my bathroom floor and I was quickly unraveling. Here I was in the midst of friends I’d had for 20+ years, who had traveled from multiple states to support me, and I still felt completely alone. The towel I was wrapped in doubled as a Kleenex, the hair in my face damp with tears. It was one of the biggest days of my life. I had a full agenda, yet I was emptier than I had ever been before.

I was realizing that I had done this by myself. I had successfully dragged myself (and my daughter) through law school regardless of the obstacles. I had past-due tuition, for her and for myself. I had missed class when she was sick. I had battled through a divorce, three moves, two schools, and endless hours of commuting in Atlanta traffic. Yet, I had accomplished this huge feat on my own, and on the day that was meant for me to be recognized, it hit me harder than I ever imagined.

“Thinking something does not make it true. Wanting something does not make it real.”- Michelle Hodkin

TRUTH IS: I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS.

The reality of it was: I did it alone because I didn’t have a choice. I graduated law school early. I didn’t find out I would be walking in graduation until three months before the ceremony. A month later, I signed my first post-graduation employment contract for my dream job (which involved moving yet again). I immediately started circulating my graduation information to my friends and family. I will never forget the excitement I got from my friends’ responses, immediately making travel plans and reservations, as if they were graduating too.

I also remember the lack of responses from my family members. I had long sense realized that I would be celebrating this degree without them. I had a tumultuous relationship with both parents during my childhood. At the age of 28, I now know that my mother, a mother of four, always wanted to be a mother. She just did not want to be a mother to me. She loved my father beyond words. His departure (mixed with the fact that I am his spitting image) made it impossible for her to love me through the resentment. She never forgave him, herself, or me.

My father is the most celebrated man in the State of South Carolina. Renown educator, 150K salary a year, PhD holder, husband of 15+ years, astute Christian, and father of five happy, successful children (not including me). My father called me one month prior to graduation to wish me a happy birthday. It was the first time we had spoken in almost a year. He also wanted to let me know that he was so proud...of my younger brother who would be probating the next day.

He’s a Superintendent of a large school district and stands firmly on promoting and supplying higher education for every student. He made sure tuition was paid for every one of his children who matriculated through college. I have now completed my third degree on my own. Someone should tell my father that help would’ve been nice, especially considering that law school costs about 150K.

The nature of my relationships with my parents have caused extraordinary strain on other relationships adjacent to theirs. Neither of my parents chose to be a part of my matriculation. Therefore, neither of my parents were invited to share this graduation with me. Consequently, neither of my paternal and maternal grandmothers were able to attend. My grandmothers, the women who raised me and made me who I am, did not watch me walk.

I’ll likely carry that with me for the rest of my life.

“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real”- Cormac McCarthy

THREE WAS ALSO A LONELY NUMBER.

Graduation isn’t for the graduates anyways. It’s for your family. It’s to allow your family to celebrate you, to be proud of you, and to brag about you. I didn’t know that I’d miss that until that morning on my bathroom floor.

I had sent out numerous texts (well in advance) inviting all the family members who I wanted to be there. I created the cutest invitations and itineraries to make sure everyone had all the information.

Only two people cared to respond. Those two people didn’t even show. The morning of the ceremony, only three family members had committed to showing up, including my own daughter. I had completed law school. I finished an entire year early. Yet, I was walking the stage in front of a crowd full of family…none of which belonged to me. This was a moment that not even the seven years of therapy could have prepared me for.

I was late to my law school graduation because it took me that long to gather myself and come to terms with the fact that no one was going to show up for me. There would be no photos of me with my mother standing on one side and my father on the other. No one was popping up with flowers and balloons. I boo-hoo cried for hours grasping the reality that I had completed this on my own, I was walking in graduation on my own, and I would continue to navigate through life on my own.

AT SOME POINT, I HAD TO GET UP.

Now that it’s over, the only thing that matters is who/what got me to graduation that morning. As I said, I had a house full of my closest friends who had traveled from all over to be there for me. Also, something told me I had to walk to show all the professors and naysayers who doubted me that I was capable. But more importantly, I thought about three people who needed to see me walk the stage that day.

Desmond Cox: As a teen, all of my weekends consisted of playing spades, drinking brown, and spending time with my boys. Dez taught me everything I never needed to know: how to “freak” the black-and-mild, how to play the big joker, and how not to get in the car until a man opened the door for me. To this day, he is the most respectable man I’ve ever known.

January 21, 2013, the police found Dez’s body in the parking lot of his apartment complex next to the dumpster. It changed my life. If he were still here, he would’ve turned 29 on the day after I graduated. He also would’ve yanked me off of my bathroom floor and made me walk in my graduation. I had to get up for him.

Malcolm X: It is not lost on me that I graduated on Malcolm X’s birthday. Although I can understand and appreciate the strides made by MLK, Jr. as the face of the Civil Rights Movement, I have continuously lived my life in honor of his “not-so-cordial” counterpart. El-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz was both conscious and courageous, constantly speaking about how higher education is a form of freedom. If I was going to have his face pinned onto my graduation stole, I had to walk to honor the people who came before me. I had to get up for them.

Most importantly…

Aryn Bryce: If ever I owed this graduation to anyone, it’s her. My daughter sat in classes with me, ate dinner during lectures, and watched court coverage until 9:30 on school nights. She had sacrificed just as much as I had for this degree and she needed to see me walk. I had to get up for her.

I am also forever grateful to my boyfriend for literally putting me into my graduation dress one leg at a time. I’ll remember that moment for years to come. At the end of the day, I had walked the stage in front of all of my friends and I was proud of myself for doing it. I still felt a shortness of breath when we entered through the crowd of families snapping photos like paparazzi. “Graduation depression” is real and it crippled me on one of the most important days of my life. But, I won.

In my proudest, loneliest moments, I learned to be grateful for the people who were there instead of dwelling on the people who weren’t.

I also learned that I was enough…all by myself. Congratulations graduate. You did well.

“There is no better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance the next time.”- Malcolm X

[goosegrewup]

from me to you, a chapter closed.

I have to start this letter with context so that you understand why this is necessary.

Earlier this year, I embarked on a journey with the man of my dreams. 

He was EVERYTHING from the moment I met him. Handsome. Vibrant. Direct. Active in his community. For the people. Persistent (as hell). Romantic. 

I’d never been so fulfilled by one relationship (I’ll explain). I just knew I had found my soulmate and I couldn’t understand how he was still available or why his past girlfriends had turned him loose.

Plot Twist: They never did. Subsequent Plot Twist: My soulmate was a hoe.

Yes, you read that correctly. A WHOLE HOE. Not the discrete type that no one would suspect. My man was publicly, relentlessly, negligently slanging D before he met me. This is not up for debate. 

But who am I to judge? We quickly came to terms with our different pasts and what had to be different in order for our relationship to work. And we did just that and it has worked ever since. We are now undoubtedly in a committed…fulltime 9-to-5…mutual relationship/adventure and we have made the necessary preparations to be here for the rest of our lives. It’s lovely.

Not everyone has received or acknowledged this movement though. 

Hence why we are here.

I am writing this letter to every ex that has approached either of us at dinner, in the line at Dunkin Donuts, in the parking lot at Kroger, at the music festival, the company party, in church, Facebook messenger, Instagram, SnapChat, WhatsApp, Podio, text message, email, third-party communication, via handwritten note on construction paper, or by smoke signal to talk to us (him or me) about what y’all had. These are just the few encounters that stood out.

The first few interactions were mind-boggling, I admit. The woman would be so angry. The encounter would be so emotionally-charged that I’d begin to question who I was with. We’d go home and I would interrogate him about what happened with her because I needed to know exactly who I was sleeping next to. He’d tell me, sparing no detail.

As the encounters continued to happen, I would start wondering exactly what this man (MY man) was doing to these women to spark such immediate passion and outrage. The minute they spotted him, they either wanted to fight him or fuck it…or both.

[Now that we’re deeper into this relationship thing, I get it sis. He’s the shit.🙃🙃🙃] 

I also get that his past hasn’t been pretty, nor was it ever properly concluded. For this reason, and considering who I am, I began to give more leeway and empathy to the stories I was confronted with by women I’d never seen before in my life. Understand two things about me:

1. I am a woman first. A Black woman, at that. I have my own traumas and stigmas attached to Black men and I hold them to a (damn near unreachable) standard when it comes to loving me (and women in general). I love and support everything about Black women and your stories haven’t fallen on deaf ears, nor do I think you’re “crazy”.

AND

2. I believe in growth just as much as I believe in karma. People’s past doesn’t define nor excuse them. We can spend our entire lives distancing ourselves from who we used to be, just for ONE moment of karma to blow it back up in our face again. Happens every day, b.

I love my man, but I also love my people. For this reason, I began to consciously accept whatever allegations these women would deliver, through whatever platform, through whatever medium. It had become too common of an occurrence.

I had an opportunity just this week to observe a panel on “women’s sexuality”, based on a Facebook post by my man about whether or not two popular Black television characters were or were not “#GOALS” for women. It was held at his church. I rarely go to church as it is, but I went for him. Mostly to support. Also to mediate.

The “sanctuary” was filled with men and women ready to talk about all the things we usually can’t talk about in mixed company: Black women and their rights to their bodies independent of a man’s hands, opinions, or judgments. A panel of “scholars” and experts faced the crowd from the stage to answer questions about the topics at hand. My man included.

What right does a man have to comment on a woman’s “goals” or aspirations? Why are men allowed to oppress a woman’s right to be who she is sexually? Why can’t Black men protect and uplift Black women instead of using their bodies, then shaming them for their sexual past?  WHY CAN’T MEN LEAVE WOMEN AND THEIR DECISIONS ALONE?

I agree. A woman’s sexuality has always been mandated by society. Society says she’s a hoe if her body count is too high. Society says she can’t sleep with more than one man at a time. Society says she has to spend her entire life “preserving her dignity” and “reserving her vagina” for when that ONE man is done aimlessly sleeping around and is finally ready to marry her.

I’ve never really fucked with societal norms, but I’m different.

We, as women, can wear all the hats. We can play our part at both ends of any spectrum. Let’s not even touch on our strength. In this day, men want a self-entertained woman with goals, a good job, stability, open sexuality, who none of their homeboys have ever looked at, who is loyal to a fault, and classy enough to represent him well at his family functions. We might even also be in the process of bettering ourselves and raising children. 

The lesson here is that sometimes we are willing to wear all of these hats to please a man who may wear ONE, if any. If we truly accepted the power that we had, we could change the game.

Imagine a collective of Black women who wear all the hats for OURSELVES: building, raise our children, secure the bag, AND governing our own yoni on our own terms…

Y’all…That collective already exists. Some of us have been exercising our sexual independence for years. It doesn’t make us “HOES”. It makes us powerful beyond what you can imagine. Men have no right to govern things out of their control. Period.

So why is this letter penned to the ghosts of my boyfriend’s past? 

I sat in that church a few nights ago…two rows in front of one ex and a glance across the pew from another. Lol. I knew what it was when they walked in and so did he. *cues karma*

Also, I have this immense patience for any women he ghosted, misled, cut off, etc…for me. Closure is huge for some people and I advocate for it every time. Get what you’re due, boo.

One of the women used the opportunity to read everything she didn’t get to say when he left off a list she scribbled on an envelope. She worked the crowd until they openly shared her sentiment about this man (my man) and it was so interesting to watch because her emotion was so much louder than the shots fired. Her list was so long that she rejoined at the end of the line to finish it. She even used the word…”SLORE”. 😳

Now, Black men should not tell Black women who to be. Black men should not commoditize our bodies like having sex with us takes away from our worth. 

But, sis. Let’s get to the truth now. Men and women should both be free to express their sexuality. You’re publicly screaming on your ex at a church function because you’re hurt by what you allowed. Let’s unpack that.

My man sat on this panel with a sweatshirt reading “PROTECT BLACK WOMEN AT ALL COSTS” because he does. If he didn’t protect her, as a Black woman, he would’ve given the congregation the real backstory of their relationship for more context. But I digress…

Do y’all really want to be sexually free? Sexual freedom is not for the faint of heart, nor is it about appeasing a man. If you want to be sexually free, you have to know what that entails. Love you first. Know your worth. Communicate your terms. Don’t agree to mutual, open relationships if you don’t want to share. Don’t sacrifice your sanity for companionship and never reduce yourself into a role you’re not comfortable with just to have a piece of him.

Get free, sis. #NolaDarling said “It’s all about control…my body, my mind. Who’s gonna own it, them or me?”.

That’s sexual freedom.

WHAT Y’ALL ARE GETTING IS SEXUAL OPPRESSION AND THE OCCASIONAL THREESOME. Y’all have been duped.

You can call him a hoe, but no one gets to say he hindered you from your freedom. It’s yours, sis. Create your own boundaries. Sometimes we fail to ask for what we want, and we get short-changed. That journey isn’t exclusive to any of us. Trust me.

The other woman sat in ear’s reach, shouting “YASSSSS” to backhanded comments and whispering about him under her breath. [But made sure to pass a message to him through the grapevine that “They needed to talk” after the event was over]

I encourage closure, so I give room for that…within reason. But we, as women, love to construct one-sided contracts that we never communicate and relationships that the man is never fully privy to. The necessary conversations never happen. The commitment piece is completely forgone because we just assume it’s there. Then, one night we have him and the next thing we know, we’re calling the other woman trying to figure out why neither of us has seen him in days. GET OUT. ISSATRAP.

And it hurts. Y’all are angry and I OVERsympathize. He should have been more diplomatic in his relationship endeavors. But our mistakes don’t define us. Not yours. Not mine. Not his. We’re all human.

One of the most important pieces of true freedom of self is setting boundaries. We teach people how to treat us. They only do what we allow.

Y’all have every right to hold this man (my man) accountable for what he did to you. Hell, I do every day. I assure you this is the hardest relationship he’s ever been in…because sis, I. DON’T. PLAY. AND. AIN’T. SHIT. SWEET.

I get the need to gather all the pieces you gave to him in order for you to heal. I understand protecting your dignity, needing to get something off of your chest, and taking back what’s yours. And I want all of that for y’all.

But he and I can’t wait for your breakthrough.

This man had no business playing with your body with no interest in committing to you. He was wrong.

But I also need women to stop just signing emotional contracts in the blind and learn how to COUNTEROFFER that shit. Get what you deserve by any means necessary.

You truly deserve to get ALLLLLLLLL of your healing…But GET IT AND GO.

He’s growing AND we’re going to keep building AND we’re not going anywhere. We have a lifetime ahead of us of running into y’all at functions, soirees, and on social media.

I just really want to see y’all win. Get this old beef out the way and prosper, sis.

Let me know how I can help.

Sincerely, THE ONE.

“Live life the way you see fit and either others get with the program or get off the fucking ship.” -SGHI

[goosegrewup]

Noname wrote this for me.

[goosegrewup]

Someone asked me how my Thanksgiving turned out...

[goosegrewup]

Because I can refuse apologies when I please.

[goosegrewup]

[goosegrewup]

Where I am today.

[pussypotion-deactivated20250121]

[goosegrewup]

Hello.

[goosegrewup]

When bae leaves you lunch money on your day off…

[goosegrewup]

...I miss you.

[goosegrewup]

Community Service.

I spent the morning with my sleeves cuffed on my blazer and my hair brushed up into a tight bun. You in your bowtie with your “satchel”, because white people like black people who look sophisticated. We forced down quiche and quinoa, imagining bacon. And when they asked us why we were there, we articulated our purpose and how the disparity between rich whites and the impoverished Black kids we work with/for is simply…access. We’d smile to break up the truths and minimize our hand gestures as to not make them uncomfortable or come off “angry”.

But we are. You and I fight for poor children in rooms full of tailored suits. Wearing smiles made of false hope, meant to hide what we really want to say. We shake hands with those who have the resources we need, hoping that if we hold on long enough…something will transfer. Then we return to our hood.

89 degrees outside with no trees to hide under, we're at your place. You prop the window open. I kick my shoes off. You pull off your button-up. I read the affirmations you’ve scribbled across your mirror as I watch your reflection set up the side table. There’s a kente bandana where your beret just was. The breeze carries the scent of green across the room to me. I pull up a chair.

You didn’t even take your good watch off yet, but your eyes tell me how badly you need this release. I watch your hands move. Meticulously. You glance up at me briefly. I’m just watching you, Black man. I’d never judge. I watch you crush it within your fingertips. You slide your tongue across the blunt with me in mind. Our eyes connect and tell all of our secrets right there in smoke signals. You exhale. You take my face into your palm and run your hands down my neck just to watch my reaction. And for that moment, you’re at peace. All I can do is watch silently. I take nothing from the Black man who limitlessly gives himself away every day.

I’m honored to serve. Them. Us. And you.

[goosegrewup]

[goosegrewup]

I no longer have an affinity for Mother's Day. I will no longer be celebrating it. Carry on.

[goosegrewup]

I finished my last ballet recital yesterday. I am free. I am fulfilled. I am satisfied in my effort. I am on the next goal...

[goosegrewup]

How fitting it was that I cut myself shaving on the morning of my first law final... I have literally shed blood for this degree.