The Venus Journals

The Venus Journals explores the mind of M. Stevens, an educator and up-and-running writer/blogger based in Brooklyn NYC with cloud-nine hopes of publishing a book and expanding on her passion. Read, share, debate, think...please use these entries as a way of exploring your own thinking. Enjoy.

[thevenusjournals]

Issa v. Lawrence: Case Closed.

Bravo, #TeamInsecure. Last night's season finale was a healthy mix of tears, laughter, and oh-no-she-didn't. It was an emotional clip of something we hate and need simultaneously when it comes to relationships: closure.

Writers masterfully divided the episode into three segments: 30 days with Lawrence, Molly and Issa, the folks we have the most questions about this season (Tiffany, this ain't over, love). However, the tides turn into Issa's journey of coming into her own, which leads to an intense encounter with Lawrence that leaves us hanging onto the edges of our beds fighting tears.

And that's where we'll focus. Issa is moving out of The Dunes as we see how gentrification has now completely changed the place she has called home. And we know the beast that is gentrification: the rent increases, white folks skidaddying to and fro, coffee shops, changing the names of the neighborhood and attempting to silence the history and culture of what has always been. And Iss finds herself at a crossroad. This time, we see a different Issa. She doesn't attempt to cover her vulnerability with her hotation, and we don't see that at all this episode. We see her owning all of her wrongdoing here, from telling her boss the truth about the prejudiced principal Blaine to her conversation with Lawrence post-restaurant fiasco. It is easier to press the reset button here, and she makes the decision to stay with her brother (so we thought).

Enter the kitchen scene at The Dunes. She and Lawrence, who waited at the now empty apartment to apologize, are now doing what we wanted them to do from day 1, even though we know it wasn't going to happen without some pain. We see a maturity with both Iss and Lawrence that only comes with the pain and the anger of a breakup, plus the love between two people. Lawrence admits his own shortcomings, how he failed to get it together and be better. And Issa admits her own wrongs, how she expected Lawrence to be better for her and him and failed to step up when she knew that he was going through his own struggle. And then it happens: that spark. Issa reveals to Lawrence (surprise) that she still loves him. And he reveals it right back. And that moment is gorgeous and heartbreaking. Who hasn't gone through this?

And as they head out of the apartment they rented, the home they've once shared, we see through Issa's daydream all that they could've been, all that they'd wanted. And it seems so real, seems so possible, that we want it to be real, we dare it to happen. But it is all gone in his goodbye. Did ya'll cry?

Since we've watched Lawrence bang out Pierced Nippled Tasha in season one's finale, we have been struggling with rooting for our two lovers to win. The fire behind many online debates and full blown arguments, #TeamIssa v. #TeamLawrence, is fueled by our own Issa or Lawrence moments in past relationships. We either want Lawrence or Issa to lose so badly. What we don't realize, even in mourning their failed relationship, is that sometimes all we need is closure. Both were wrong--whether or not we care to acknowledge it, both contributed to their love's demise. Both could have worked a little harder. Both could have loved a lot harder. They fell into the trap of routine and both took for granted the potential they had to win. They wanted the marriage, but there is work in a longstanding marriage and the minute one messed up, the other checked out (notice that neither name is mentioned here). As we saw with Molly's parents, love hurts and takes work. They thought they were solid, but the minute the communication stopped, all hell broke loose and they flaked. And even though they wanted more, what they had was more than they could handle. The shit hurts, but things have already happened and the dust is cleared. Our girl is officially out of The Dunes, and she and Lawrence are officially FB friends and nothing more.

Let's not get into why she then acts a fool and stays with Daniel. Or why Molly dipped with the Pastor-bodied TSA agent who moonlights as a Chicago lawyer, only to go right back to Dro like she holds candle to his wife. We were stuck on stupid after the last four minutes of the episode, but it doesn't take away from the beauty of the goodbye. Where are we going next? Wherever Issa, Molly and Lawrence decides to venture, we hope to see more of what we've loved about the show from Day 1.

[thevenusjournals]

Yes, That Conversation Was Necessary. No, Lawrence is definitely still trash.

Absolute basura. Imagine being in a relationship with someone for years, seeing him or her essentially take up air and space in your life and failing at doing more than maintaining his or her mess, only for aforementioned bae to bounce once you’ve made a mistake you are more than determined to make right? 

I’m not saying Issa wasn’t wrong. She definitely was not right when stepping out with Daniel. Instead of making her frustrations clear with Lawrence, she definitely decided to bungee jump into the world of uncertainty, determined to get more out of living than she was at the moment. But when the smoke cleared, Lawrence was faced with the very real dilemma of questioning his girlfriend’s (in)fidelity. And we know how that went down.

They hadn’t had a sit-down conversation since. Nothing more than simple requests for mail, an extremely brief revenge romp on the bouch (and yes, I said bouch), and some social media stalking. Lawrence wrestled off and on with the demise of his relationship with Issa throughout the season, only caring enough to pump the brakes after being cursed to hell by Tasha and getting played by the black peen-lusted chicks after his trip to the supermarket. Only in his failure to secure another thing does Lawrence think about Issa---oh, that and when he comes across a photo of her and Daniel with their undeniable chemistry--and when he does, he is quick to play victim. Re: bar conversation with Derek. 

Issa did the opposite. After briefly attempting to win her man back, she decides to roll with it and do her. Hotation in effect, then it wasn’t. Her line-up dried up. Daniel came and blinded her (all pun intended). Your girl was down. Now, on top of trying to take control of her mess, old bae shows up to dinner with HIS new bae, unannounced, shaped up, and petty on full? 

He played himself. They aren’t together, so people may disagree here, but the fact that he wasn’t brave enough to come alone spoke volumes about where he stands regarding Issa. If he was truly over her, where is the harm in supporting your boy without having people question the presence of the girl on your arm? And his girl, this cool chick from work who looks at him and likes him enough to feel uncomfortable at the same table as the woman who had “broken” his heart, is being pulled into a messy situation that Lawrence isn’t even gangsta enough to clean up and end on his own. How many more casualties will fall victim to Lawrence and Issa? 

Can we talk about how men carry the weight of one incident in which they are betrayed and cling to it for dear life? Why is Issa a hoe as a result of one incident, one night? Why does Lawrence cling to that night like he clings to the arm of his new girl? Why is it so important for him to know if she and Daniel were a thing while they were together if they aren’t anymore? What difference would it make? Lawrence wants his ego stroked, and he doesn’t hesitate to use others to get the feeling he lost when he found out someone else made Issa feel what he couldn’t. It wasn’t enough that she was his clean-up woman. She needed to be his everything when he needed it most, even at her own expense, and he couldn’t take it when she wasn’t. How many of us have found ourselves in similar situations?

We’ve all been Issa at some point, holding on to dead weight. Her slip-up came when she decided to try and move on without acknowledging how she hurt her partner and forgiving herself. She should have ended it before she went out and brought someone else into what they had, but she hadn’t and that was that. Why are we expected to wear the A? Yes, she did have sex outside of her relationship, but is she supposed to take that L forever? 

Men are quick to label others, but when it comes time to look in the mirror, their memory and vision suddenly fails them. When she took shots at Lawrence’s outdated app, his dream project, and called him out on his depression, my heart stopped. No lies there. Him calling her a hoe was his truth too, in all fairness, In that moment outside of the restaurant and in the real world, where hotations and work baes didn’t exist, Issa and Lawrence were mirrors. 

People hurt people. That is a fact of life and as we grow older and wiser with experiences, it remains one of the hardest and most necessary lessons we learn. It is what we do with that hurt that reveals the depths of our character. That conversation outside of the restaurant between two hurt lovers revealed more about their characters now than ever before. Both have a lot to sort out, and both have gone about moving on in a way that ends up harming them more than helping. It ain’t over between those two. I really do hope no one else gets tangled in their web of hurt. 

[thevenusjournals]

Love, actually.

What is the point of marrying someone? Literally--what is the point of the gowns, the fancy chapels, the tuxedoes, the parties, the honeymoons, photos, hashtags, all of this cute performing? Some chalk marriage up to pretty paper and signatures. For others, its a great picture and a beautiful ring. 

For many, it is a lifetime partnership, an eternal bond. And that sounds great, it really does. It’s almost hilarious to think that marriage is anything but that. But before “I do,” do we really consider what we might get out of jumping the broom?

Last week, a video posted by Facebook vlogger TorahCents captured her arguing that we marry not for love, but for generational success and personal growth. She suggested that even though the concept dealt in absolutes, marriage “is not a vehicle for love as much as it is a vehicle for building.” 

While many do agree with her sentiment and rationale, the concept of love and its role in marriage is undermined. Love is the vehicle for the desire to grow and to achieve generational growth with someone. It hasn’t always been this way in western civilization--marriage used to simply be a power move, a decision to be socially and economically stable, while in other civilizations, it was a means to some food and currency. Women would dress in their finest gowns (not white) and marry the men for whose bloodline they would contribute. Men owned their wives’ property. It goes even deeper for black heterosexual marriages.

In slavery, slaves were forbidden to marry or live with each other. As true lemonade makers, couples would jump the broom or cross sticks to signify their unions publicly. There is so much missing in this bit on marriage, but it was essentially the joining of two families. More political than romantic. 

That isn’t the point. Our society today portrays marriage to be something one does when he or she is young and in love. Don’t believe me? Ask you friends who are unmarried about the pressure they may feel from family or other friends as they get older (women, especially. I can’t truly speak for men.) Think about the conversations where you were asked when you would marry. Remember how annoyed you were? Yup. It comes from our world. 

Today’s society tells us to marry for love. We are expected to be totally in love with our partners. Subsequently, in the unfortunate event that the love runs out, we are told to leave. Bounce. Love don’t live here no more.

And her point makes sense. A lot of sense. But love is the glue that keeps the purposes of marrying intact. Your love for someone would spark individual growth and a desire for generational success. You want everything: family pictures for the holiday, food and blankets in the park, happy talk at the dinner table, private talks with the children, two cars, a big home, maybe a dog, when you are in love with someone and are determined to spend your life being his or her partner. 

The Bible warns us to be equally yoked (and if you don’t believe in the Bible, fine, just read lol). Often people believe that it refers to two Christians, but the reality is that it refers to what someone has to offer. When you have someone on your level, you see the growth and the building. It is easier to set a foundation with two people in sync in their union. They value the same things. They want the same things. Why wouldn’t growth or generational success be their desire when they match each other’s flyness? TorahCents nailed it, but she neglected to mention that love is the reason why marriage is intended for growth and success. 

It is love that makes you say yes, or drop to your knee. Love walks down the aisle with you. And from the beginning, it is the love you see and experience in your home that becomes your filter for a potential partner. Single parent? Two parents? Were your parents happy and loving all the time? No? All of it has had some effect on how one sees relationships and marriage. Molly went and did her married childhood friend because of her now-warped view of marriage and men (see what I did there? IDC, that show is life.) No, love isn’t enough for a marriage, but it does drive the desire to fulfill its purpose. It’s more powerful than we think it is.

The post was dope, can’t lie. It made me think and there ain’t nothing wrong with that. But the powerful energy that is love makes the team that makes the dream work. 

[thevenusjournals]

Hella Risky: Issa is Playing a Dangerous Game

This is going to get messy.

In the newest episode of Insecure, “Hella Shook,” we see Issa setting boundaries in her attempt to build her “hotation,” while watching Molly face the music and taste the bittersweet reality we all know exists when it comes to love and relationships. Interestingly, we finally begin seeing Lawrence go through yet another stage of breaking up/moving on: the online creeping/ “Hey big head” phase. So much to unpack, so little time. Also, does no one notice that each week (the past two and next week), the show airs ten minutes later than previously scheduled? Is it…on purpose? Am I reaching to assume so?

Anyway, Issa. Girl, Issa. We see her in this episode attempt to reclaim her time as she begins getting comfortable with casual dating and/or sex (whichever she is up to do, as she is single AF and free AF to do what she wants!), proclaiming that she is not looking to have feelings for anyone new (or anyone she is messing with, Daniel). We also see some tension between she and her coworker on the racist assistant principal at one of their sites, and the conversation gets real. Frieda bluntly questions Issa’s willingness to let Blaine rock with excluding Latinx students from participation in the program, calling it and him racist. And it is—Blaine has made several disturbing comments regarding the Latinx student population, which initially makes both women uncomfortable, but because the numbers at the site will benefit Issa, she disregards it in order to do the “greater good” of reaching many students. The conversation gets really heated when Frieda asks, “So I am not free to call out any person of color when they are doing something wrong?” Issa then hits her with the, “It must be nice to have the privilege to choose to be upset over this.” Issa. Girl. Blaine is racist. Do the right thing. Yet, Issa does have a point: Frieda is privileged and doesn’t have to worry about being undermined or not taken seriously at work as a result of losing a client. Issa, the only black staff member at We Got Ya’ll, knows that not only is it the site and the students who participate in jeopardy of losing out on the benefits of the program, it is ultimately her neck on the line. Tough position indeed, but leaders do the right thing even when no one is looking…and we don’t know if Issa is there yet.

And my, have the tables turned! We watch Lawrence wish for that ol’ thing back, going as far as stalking Daniel’s FB profile after seeing a photo with Issa and Daniel at the diner surface. While Issa is officially in her thot phase, Lawrence has moved away from it after being shamed straight by the two white chicks and we see him simply missing his ex. Or is he? The flip side of it is that Lawrence seems to be more angry about the possibility of Issa messing back with Daniel (was she messing with him throughout our relationship?!?) than just missing what they used to be. It is the Battle of the Ego for Wrence and we almost feel bad for him—except he is now doing typical eff-boy stuff. He can come and have revenge sex (all two minutes of it), then leave her stranded emotionally, but can’t handle the idea of someone else wanting her, especially the guy she cheated on him with. 

Enter the real-ass conversation with Derek at the bar. In addition to quipping about (the very real) Team Lawrence v. Team Issa split, Derek makes it plain for Lawrence so we know it’s real: this whole mess is not entirely on Issa. Lawrence’s unemployment for two years while Issa worked and took care of him was not going to eliminate the possibility of someone else getting some play; it would only make it more of a possibility. Derek lets Lawrence know what’s up in a way only a friend could–straight, no chaser. 

Meanwhile, Issa is sexting, building her roster, and setting boundaries. An NSFW pic gets her into an accident, and who is there to (literally) rescue her but Daniel in all his chocolate glory? And here comes the awkward, heartwrenching moment we respected and hated: She essentially friends-with-benefit-zones him while he is picking her up from the accident scene. We see Daniel keep his cool and change his tune, but that doesn’t stop us from feeling another “you were a scratch” moment coming on soon. Daniel, at this point, becomes a willing sacrifice for Issa’s singlehood, and we all know that it is probably because he wants her any way she’ll allow him to have her. Issa will definitely hurt him again. Get out, Daniel. Reclaim your time now because she is not able to be what you want her to be right now. Go on, now.

Mmkay, let’s be clear on something. Issa is in the process of getting some of herself back. We’ve all been there after an emotional break-up. Makes sense. However, there are always casualties in one’s quest for true singledom. There is always one who is more invested emotionally and always one who isn’t invested at all. Love didn’t work out with Lawrence, but Issa is also dismissing Daniel as a potential love because of her need to be everything she wasn’t when with Lawrence. Daniel is then reduced to a good night. We are guilty of it too, as viewers: we want Issa to go home with Daniel, but do we want her to build one with him too? Or are we rooting for her and Lawrence to make love work through thick and thin? 

Perhaps the meat pic/car accident isn’t enough of a wake up call for Issa. She is going too hard to save face, but the only person she is performing for is herself. it is okay to grieve a relationship. It is okay date a guy. Although you run the risk of slipping into another long term, seemingly meaningless relationship, it is okay to have feelings for someone. But this will be messy. Someone will be hurt, and it will be painful to watch. I hope it isn’t Daniel, but my girl Issa is unstoppable right now.

[thevenusjournals]

Parenting Fail #1: Losing a Kid in Public

I lost my kid last night. Twice.

We were celebrating their cousin’s birthday at Dave and Buster’s. Some of our family drove in from out of town and celebrated their son’s birthday, asked us to come on out. The twins only get to see their cousins from Maryland once every other year, normally during the holidays. So it was really important for us to go and show love and support, and we were happy to oblige. We were in the lobby of the restaurant at the Times Square location, and the boys split to play one of the games available in the meanwhile. Husband and I normally split the twins when in public, so Langston was with his father. It works for us, you know? Toddlers generally never stop moving and it can be exhausting to chase after one, but imagine two? So we split them in the name of the Good Lord and Black Jesus and swallow our exhaustion as part of the parenting process. 

I did my mental headcount, and I kid you not, one minute later, Langston was gone. 

Do you know how it feels when you are grasping for air? Everything around you becomes blurry and your chest hurts and you just need to find your kid. You push people aside to get a visual (how did he move so quickly?) and you feel the ball in the back of your throat, you can’t breathe until you find him. 

This little punk was sitting at a racing game. There was an adult waiting to get on the game, patiently standing behind him, and I am irritated. Just as quickly, it is gone—I was supposed to keep track of my own kid, no one else is obligated to do it but me. And I snatched Langston up so quickly. I was steaming. Meanwhile, Langston was clueless and..curious. Little boy loved the lights and the games and the crowd and it was the same thing that had almost given me a heart attack. As my adrenaline goes back to normal, and I wipe my tears, I make a note to keep Langston close. 

Failed. Again.

In the restaurant, Langston is running around from both sides of the table. We are a party of ten. My mother in law tells me I need a drink. I do, actually. The twins are with their cousins, but their cousins are so excited themselves, and everyone is now talking and laughing, and I turn my head and Langston is gone again. This time, I am less scared and more angry. What makes him think that he can just walk off by myself? I don’t see him again (his little legs move quickly, I’ve learned) and I am back to where the game room is when I see security holding my little brown boy, sporting his cornrows and looking all around him. He just wants to play the games. I say, “Langston, stop leaving me! Stay with us, okay? We are going to the game room after we eat!” and it is pointless because he is so into the colors and the people and the atmosphere. And he wasn’t scared. He just knew we would catch up to him.

He has the kind of faith that I want to have in humanity. He believes that no one will hurt him, that he is free to just be a kid, and I suppose it is my job to make that his reality until I have no other choice but to show him how the world really is. I don’t like the idea of it, but as his mother, isn’t it my job to protect him? How can I protect him against evil he knows nothing about? 

I still struggle with having that kind of faith in people, still struggle with that kind of faith in God. But he was so sure that he was just fine last night. And if it took me getting hurt, I was definitely prepared to go to whatever lengths to make sure he was safe and okay. Lesson learned, okay?

[thevenusjournals]

Parenting Fail #1: Losing a Kid in Public

I lost my kid last night. Twice.

We were celebrating their cousin’s birthday at Dave and Buster’s. Some of our family drove in from out of town and celebrated their son’s birthday, asked us to come on out. The twins only get to see their cousins from Maryland once every other year, normally during the holidays. So it was really important for us to go and show love and support, and we were happy to oblige. We were in the lobby of the restaurant at the Times Square location, and the boys split to play one of the games available in the meanwhile. Husband and I normally split the twins when in public, so Langston was with his father. It works for us, you know? Toddlers generally never stop moving and it can be exhausting to chase after one, but imagine two? So we split them in the name of the Good Lord and Black Jesus and swallow our exhaustion as part of the parenting process. 

I did my mental headcount, and I kid you not, one minute later, Langston was gone. 

Do you know how it feels when you are grasping for air? Everything around you becomes blurry and your chest hurts and you just need to find your kid. You push people aside to get a visual (how did he move so quickly?) and you feel the ball in the back of your throat, you can’t breathe until you find him. 

This little punk was sitting at a racing game. There was an adult waiting to get on the game, patiently standing behind him, and I am irritated. Just as quickly, it is gone---I was supposed to keep track of my own kid, no one else is obligated to do it but me. And I snatched Langston up so quickly. I was steaming. Meanwhile, Langston was clueless and..curious. Little boy loved the lights and the games and the crowd and it was the same thing that had almost given me a heart attack. As my adrenaline goes back to normal, and I wipe my tears, I make a note to keep Langston close. 

Failed. Again.

In the restaurant, Langston is running around from both sides of the table. We are a party of ten. My mother in law tells me I need a drink. I do, actually. The twins are with their cousins, but their cousins are so excited themselves, and everyone is now talking and laughing, and I turn my head and Langston is gone again. This time, I am less scared and more angry. What makes him think that he can just walk off by myself? I don’t see him again (his little legs move quickly, I’ve learned) and I am back to where the game room is when I see security holding my little brown boy, sporting his cornrows and looking all around him. He just wants to play the games. I say, “Langston, stop leaving me! Stay with us, okay? We are going to the game room after we eat!” and it is pointless because he is so into the colors and the people and the atmosphere. And he wasn’t scared. He just knew we would catch up to him.

He has the kind of faith that I want to have in humanity. He believes that no one will hurt him, that he is free to just be a kid, and I suppose it is my job to make that his reality until I have no other choice but to show him how the world really is. I don’t like the idea of it, but as his mother, isn’t it my job to protect him? How can I protect him against evil he knows nothing about? 

I still struggle with having that kind of faith in people, still struggle with that kind of faith in God. But he was so sure that he was just fine last night. And if it took me getting hurt, I was definitely prepared to go to whatever lengths to make sure he was safe and okay. Lesson learned, okay?

[thevenusjournals]

Bey’s Lessons: Why Her CMA Takeover Was Such A Win

Bey converted me.

Seriously, she did. I went from a dry, bitter, “she ain’t even that serious, ya”ll gotta chill” Grade-A hater to a serious Hive member in a matter of months, and it was never more obvious than this past Wednesday night, when Bey blessed our eyes and ears by sliding right on into the Country Music Awards and, along with the Dixie Chicks, gave everybody in the audience their entire lives. 

And what made me even happier was her sense of petty. Between “Formation,” sitting atop sinking police cars declaring that Black Lives truly do matter, her Super Bowl performance,to now blowing the CMAs away, performing with The DIxie Chicks, Bey has certainly filled her cup and her petty overfloweth. 

In the midst of all of this year’s mess, she dropped “Lemonade,” because the petty she has ain’t just for the racists and the bigots. We’ve got some for the ones who break our hearts, too, and “Lemonade” gave us our fill of hurt, rage, and healing. I am seriously loving this evolved Bey. 

But back to the CMAs.

She performed with the Dixie Chicks, the same Dixie Chicks who were attacked for their viewpoints on George W. Bush at their concert in London in 2003 when he pretended to be president, the same Dixie Chicks who were banned from country music radio and, after releasing an album in 2006, went on a decade-long hiatus and pretty much disappeared from the country music establishment that seemed to ostracize them. Yup, ‘dem chicks, But on Wednesday night, they seemed right at home on stage with Bey, who has received nothing but backlash all year for being unapologetically BLACK. 

That’s why I am a believer.

We Black women have historically been unsupported in a country that hadn’t planned on supporting us..ever. In our family units, we have struggled to be providers, nurturers and matriarchs while raising our young. We have seen it all, including the self-loathing mentality of our own, the colorism that no one seems to take much notice of in our own communities, and the fact that we still demand to be included in a country we’ve helped to establish. We continue to be scrutinized and mocked more than any other group of women in this country. 

We continue to be victimized and even in our death, attacked (see Korryn Gaines) and repudiated. When we speak out, we are silenced and told we have an “attitude,” Our boldness and our flamboyant tendencies to stand out are dismissed as “ghetto,” which has always been synonymous with lacking class and virtue. We are American outliers; bold and brazen and intelligent and yet, we are constantly the butt of America’s biggest joke. Our FLOTUS, in all of her slayage, has constantly been ridiculed and disrespected in her family eight years in the WHITE HOUSE. The White House. So no matter how far we “make it,” the reality is that we Black women are always objectified, ghettoized, scrutinized, and victimized. 

So when Bey got up on that stage, honey. It was a win for us all. 

It’s the feeling you had when your cousin, the one who went away to college and got one of those “good jobs” came back to chill with the family for the holidays. The feeling in the pit of your stomach when you watched Obama quip “I know, because I won both of them,” the feeling you nursed in the back of your throat when you sit in a meeting and you see another sister on the other side of the table. The feeling you have when you hear “A Seat at the Table.” 

The idea of the darker sister not only eating at the table, but slaying all of the best dishes and doing it effortlessly. 

The petty and the determination meeting in the middle, blossoming into something beautiful and unwelcome, makes you a fan. And it is all of what 2016 was not for us, so yaaaaaassss Bey. Yes.

[thevenusjournals]

2K16: The Year of No.

I hate 2016. I want to douse him with gasoline and lighter fluid, toss a burning bush at him, and watch him burn. I would love to throw 2016 from a window, and hear the thud of his body as he slams against the sidewalk. I could never hear 2016 again and be content feeling like we skipped that year. 

Seriously, 2016 is trash.

We’ve lost Natalie Cole. What’s worst is that her tribute was nonexistent. We’ve lost Prince. Muhammed Ali is gone. Tommy is gone, and many of us are still in the dark about what he did for a living. Donald Trump seriously made it this far, no signs of any kinds of dropping out happening any time soon. Kanye was given time to rant about anything he wanted, and many of us are still trying to understand why he chose not to talk about issues that affect those back in his hometown of Chicago. As a matter of fact, he is still a Kardashian. 2016, and Kanye is still a Kardashian. Hurricane Matthew was a mess and a tragedy for all affected, especially the people of Haiti. 

Mary and that damn show, her singing to Hilary Clinton. Girl, no. And no, I’m not letting her live. Green eggs and nope. And her choice of song especially made it awkward. Even Clinton looked lost. Holding her hand. The Grinch that stole nope.

They killed Poussey. She died in the same way many real-life, everyday people were killed by police officers, and just like that, she was written off in the most inhumane manner possible. My husband and I cried so hard during that scene. We hadn’t expected the emotion--we have become so used to new hashtags that we believed ourselves to be numb. But that scene proved that we weren’t. I am still speechless. My blood still runs cold. Sleep in power Poussey, Alton Sterling, Philando Castile. Korryn Gaines, a young woman from Baltimore, was shot and killed by the police. The media then worked to justify the killing by spreading information submitted by the same police officers involved in the murder. And just when this year seemed to reach a new low, we hugged rock bottom by blaming Gaines for her own killing. We ate the false information up faster than we consumed any helping of conscious thinking we’ve ever been fed. Gaines’ death, in the eyes of many of us, was justified. At the same time, at least 21 Black transgender women have been murdered this year. We are still not #sayinghername. 2016. Black women, cis or trans, are still carrying the burden of the world. 

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve also had some sweet moments. Janet Jackson is pregnant. Full of baby and looking beautiful, Jackson is defying man’s limitations of the power of our bodies. Teyana Taylor. Homegirl killed the video for Kanye’s “Fade.” I still don’t know what the song is about, but her body...sick. “The Get Down.” Netflix is winning, period. Luke Cage, anyone?! Now they’ve signed on Spike Lee and Chris Rock to produce some stuff for them. Ava Duvernay’s “The 13th.” 2016 demands for us to wake up. Netlfix is blacker than ever. Wake up.

Ghost finally got locked up, and hopefully this fool will learn about loyalty and stop trying to play Tasha. Hopefully Tariq’s kidnapping and Ghost’s incarceration will be enough for Tasha to stop being so narrow-minded. Angela needs to go. 

“Insecure.” Omigosh, “Insecure.” Issa Rae, girl! That is all.

Donald Glover and “Atlanta.” All of it. Lemonade. A Seat at The Table. FLOTUS’s hair. Rihanna. Black Twitter. Shade Room. So we have had some good moments too. Life. Our breath, still. We are resilient. 

But in approximately two months, on the last day of the year, I am planning to be sooooo happy to welcome 2017 in. I’m waiting for her at the door. And she better not be trash like her predecessor.

She can catch these hands too. I’m ready.

[thevenusjournals]

The Jump: Choosing to Love Through Legacy.

It is August 29th, and on this day, we celebrate being married for two years. Two years ago on this day, we exchanged vows in front of a few family and friends to love each other for better or for worse, through sickness and in health, til death do us part. My husband, younger and plump in his too-big suit and sporting a smile that kissed Heaven, recited the vows almost too-eagerly; he was failing miserably at being cool. And I, crying with each word, uncomfortable in my flats, rocking swollen ankles and a pair of twins in my belly that would not let me be great. They were punching and kicking and I was anxious and unaware of the volume of our words. 

We were unaware of the volume of our vows.

So, when we were tested for the first time a few months later, facing the possibility of homelessness at the hands of someone we trusted, those words became heavy. And when we finally freed ourselves of that problem and moved on our own, giving ourselves the opportunity to rely solely on one another in our matrimony, those words tasted syrupy sweet. And every time we argued, bickering like bitter children, those words were pungent and darkened the room. 

And when we had our biggest fight, when we each built an arsenal of fire to hurt each other and uttered statements that would have made Jesus shake His head in disgust, those words became dead weight. I can’t describe how it felt to think through what my next steps might be: how our children would cope, how we would co-parent peacefully, a potential court battle, bills being paid, never wanting to love again. Single motherhood? I wasn’t looking forward to the idea but knew it was possible. And the proof is all in the pudding.

Like many other Black children of the ‘80s, I was born and raised by a single mother. My husband was, too. Neither of us had known or was familiar with any healthy examples of black love and marriage. We jumped in without any exemplars besides the ones we saw on TV. The Huxtables. The Paynes. The Winslows. The Banks. The Kyles.

He is learning just like I am. We are pulling from what we’ve seen on our tubes. We are going with love, abandoning any other thought of danger until it comes, no matter how thoughtless the process is. 

Our homes did not hold any framed photographs each of our married grandparents. It possesses no trace of the love between each of our parents. Instead, our homes fold memories of summers without fathers, nights where our mothers sat in their bedrooms, alone and strong. Dreams of numbers to play on the corner for our school clothes. Ashtrays full of cigarette butts and reality. Our mothers were the ones who woke up before the sun, dressing slowly and wiping sleep from their eyes because their jobs paid the bills. They had loved, and were hurt, and they didn’t want us to go through it. 

Mama bears. 

Though my mother is just as human as any other woman, she was fiercely protective of her children and developed a deep distrust for men based on her own experiences growing up and with love. More than anything, she wanted to protect me from falling into the same traps that were set out for her. From young, she was adamantly against the idea of me getting into a serious relationship with anyone. She stressed the importance of education and for me to acquire anything--a degree, a job, a check---that would validate my presence as a woman in this cold and unforgiving world. I had been in a long term relationship with a man who had proven to be no good for me and my mother couldn’t be happier when I left him. 

But when I came home three years later, pregnant and engaged, she was worried underneath that happiness. She was happy that her daughter was “getting further in life” than she did. She would often tell me that I did something she had never done; to her, marriage was a state of incarceration and captivity. It meant being held down to one person and having to conform to that person’s ideals. She didn’t want it, even after she had fallen in love, and she was scared of what it meant for her daughter. But she opened her arms and her heart to it and him anyway.

But after this last fight, with things going down so badly between us, with all of what we were starting to build potentially diminishing into rubbles and debris of broken possibility, Mommy was tight. Real tight. Like, I’m-her-mother-and-I-trusted-you-to-make-her-happy tight. 

And my family are not a “For worse” kind of crew. We are women who are strengthened by our capes; we are quick to exclaim that we can do it all by ourselves. And we can. We have. We will continue to. But what does this mean for me as a wife?

Marriage is beautiful, but as the daughter of a single woman and as a self-professed independent woman, it doesn’t hold the same weight it held for my grandmother. Divorces are advertised everywhere. Want a divorce? $399! No signature from partner necessary!

I see people divorcing e’eyday, B. The ugly stuff comes, the “for worse,” and sometimes the worst isn’t a universal worst, but the one condition for the partner, and leads to walking papers. I also actually read on cases of the worst, which sometimes makes appearance on the front page of some newspapers and some montages of candlelight vigils and sidewalk memorials for someone who tried to leave too late. All of it scares me. Marriage, for better or for worse, scares me.

But I love him, so I jumped. Whether it will lead us to twin rocking chairs on a porch, or two separate loving families for our children, I jumped. We are going to give this all we have. And it won’t always be pretty, nice, loving, “like-worthy.” But for our sake, we are going to trust in the very thing that made us jump: our love for each other. And we’ll make rainbows after the rain.

Today is our anniversary. It is the day we are supposed to celebrate our love and reflect on our progress. I cannot erase the memory of our argument from my mind. And I know we have some growing to do. We got love, and we got heart. I’m happy about that. I got a love for this union with him. I love him beyond logic. It is overwhelming and intense and challenging. But I cannot forget the legacy of my mother. Marriage is not always pretty. It is not possible for two individuals to treat each other well all of the time. But something died the moment we spoke after the fight: our egos. We got each other at the most raw level we could get. Nothing realer than that.

[thevenusjournals]

The Rage of the Native Children

Photo: bangordailynews.com

Last week, we took our twins to the park with their cousin to play. My sister and I ran behind the three toddlers like madmen, bending over backwards to make sure there were no busted lips, broken bones and super loud sobbing matches. Langston wore an afro; I am always fighting him in order to braid it, but he often fights back and I lose and this day was no different. He is running to play with a car he sees in the park, one of those weird metal sculptures that kids are able to play with. As he approaches the car, I saw a little white boy who appears to be older playing with his father. And then I see his father attempt to pull his son away from the area my son is approaching. And for a minute, I’m stuck like, am I imagining this? So I watch Langston play while the white guy is giving us the side-eye and telling his son that it is time to go. As they are leaving the area, I find myself stuck: on one hand, I am livid. My son and daughter are 19 months old, and they don’t care much about anyone outside of themselves, like most children. What could they possibly do to this little boy who was noticeably bigger than them? On the other hand, I am furious with myself for wanting to tell the man that they are harmless. Why should I have to speak apologetically of my beautiful little toddlers? My strong little boy, who will at most climb out of his crib, deserves to play and enjoy himself as much as that white boy. And I am mad and disappointed in the fact that I felt a need to open my mouth to explain it. Because humanity.

These last three weeks have been like a neverending episode of “The Twilight Zone.” We have collectively been trapped in a cycle that is all-too-familiar: anger when someone is brutalized and/or killed by someone in authority, determination to fight against the institutionalized racism that fuels such tragedies, disbelief that we have to explain that we are just as valuable as anyone else, disappointment that we are still feeling compelled to explain that we are human too, and then cynicism. We make jokes. We meme ourselves back to some fabricated sense of sanity. And then it happens again. 

Trayvon. Rekiya. Sandra. Michael. Eric. Philando. Alton. Tamir. Aiyana. 

We move differently each time. We protest. We post online. We attempt to boycott. It has become an art. 

Why do I have to explain that we deserve to live too? Why do I have to break down how “black on black” crime and violence doesn’t actually exist, as there is crime and violence that occurs within every racial group? Why do I have to rethink my decision to give birth to children in a world that rejected them before they were actually born? Why do I have to research places that accept Blacks before I go to visit or consider moving? 

I suppose it is the same reason people go so hard to justify the murders of men and women, boys and girls who never asked to be born with the skin they were in. It is the same reason why a bigot is placed on a pedestal and given the opportunity to take on the most important job in ‘Merica. It is the same reason why countless individuals have been cleared of murder charges by juries of their peers while the mothers of the victims wail loudly, stung badly by justice because they were unaware that Justice herself was prejudiced. It is the same reason why we continue to attempt to win a game that we were never invited to play. 

It is the reason why a wallet is “mistaken” for a gun, why going out to celebrate a coming wedding is unacceptable, why playing with toy guns are dangerous, why hanging on your front porch is threatening. Why selling cigarettes is problematic. Why questioning a violation of your rights is suicidal. Why you can’t open carry. And you can’t sell CDs. 

Why I stay up and pray every time my husband leaves for work. Why I call my brothers and plead with them to stay home if necessary. Why I am scared to leave my home with my children. Why I stare at them and cry, thinking it is my fault they are here and not that I was blessed to have them. Why I am not so eager to have them watch shows that feature characters they will never relate to, never connect with, never know. Why I see the fear in a white mother’s eyes when all my children have come to do is play, like hers. Why I am quick to say something. Why I told that man that he was being ridiculous. It is why he understood exactly what I was talking about. 

Why we still have to explain that we matter as much as everyone does. 

One of my favorite novels growing up was and still is Native Son. Wright is able to put our rage into beautifully intricate statements. He is able to make plain the process of making a monster. And the rage that Bigger grows to have, the anger that comes from being a Black man in a country that doesn’t want his kind, is real. I loved Richard (you can’t tell me I didn’t know him) for making it real. It is real and it is painful. It hurts and that hurt boils itself into a rage that is hard to contain. Wright was good at showing why Bigger was sentenced to die. It is why he ended up killing the girl in the first place. The older I get, the more I connect with Bigger. And in that park that day, I definitely understood exactly how ‘Merica creates monsters.

We probably won’t go back to that park. I’ll end up catching a case. I also refuse to see my son be criminalized, even as a toddler. But I’ll tell you something: I’m fighting back. AIn’t no standing dormant. My ancestors didn’t, and I’m not. 

[thevenusjournals]

The Curse of the Mule: How to Break the Cycle

-Nayla Kidd, courtesy of NY Post

It had been a long day. Becoming a working mother of toddler twins is no easy feat. Toni and Langston are absolutely incredible little people, but being a part of the team that raises them is an ever-changing challenge. My husband is extremely active with them and means well, but there are many tasks in child-rearing reserved for the mother, and I feel it. So from working 10-13 hours a day to coming home and feeding and spending time with my children, I am exhausted. I thought I had it all covered too, until a couple of months ago. I had a week off from work and was with the munchkins all day. You may be wondering why that seemed like such a huge task. Vacation, right?

Nah. When I thought of all the work I had to do at work, combined with the work I wanted to get done at home, I started to get sweaty. And when I thought of how we were going to hold on until the next paycheck, I swear I thought I could feel my heart pump furiously through my robe. My breathing became uncontrollable, and before I knew it, I was crying hysterically. My twins were asleep, safe in their cribs while their mother had a huge breakdown on the other side of the door. It was horrendous.

I called my mother to calm me down. I needed to hear another voice, someone who wouldn’t be repulsed by the negativity I needed to express. I needed to vent. I needed to cry and to have someone tell me a breakthrough was near, even if it was a lie. I prayed, but when I didn’t feel the comfort that usually came with it, I was petrified. So I called my mother.

“Mommy, this is too much. This is a lot, Mommy. I don’t know what I am doing,” I’d managed to get out over wailing on the phone. I was spent, completely exhausted. Not a full night’s rest since being four months pregnant, and my beautiful babies are almost a year and a half.  2015 was both a blessing and a curse. I had never been so stressed in one year. To make matters worse, the year took my uncle and stepfather with her. Their deaths, my exhaustion, our mounting financial issues, and my career had become overwhelming and I’d reached my peak. I don’t know what I wanted my mother to say, but I needed something at that moment.

“Stop crying right now. You don’t have time for tears. This is what you gotta do. You are a black woman living in America, and this is what we have to do. I never exposed you to this side of life, so you can’t handle it. But you gotta stop crying and just do it,” my mother said sternly, yet quietly. It was almost as though she didn’t want to say it, yet her response was automatic, like she had told those exact words her whole life. I cupped my hand over my mouth until we hung up, and stared into space until I could hear the children awake from their slumber. Back to it.

It’s not that my mother doesn’t know how to advise. She is wise enough to have been here and to be here to talk about it. It’s not that she doesn’t understand. As a kid, we’d dealt with so many things: drug abuse in the family, foster care, constant moving, public assistance, incarceration, disease, you know it. She managed to escape it, so I know she understands. 

It’s that Curse of the Black Woman: the notion that no matter what we go through, we have to suck it up and move on. We are not allowed to be vulnerable. We are not allowed to show “weakness.” We have to grin and bear it all. 

We are the ones who are expected to have it all together. We are the painters of the portraits of our perfect families, with us standing in the forefront, smiling confidently, our melanin poppin’ and our kinky curls and coils on fleek. We read about strong Black women in ESSENCE magazine, and we add items on our to-do lists We have to be the strength of everyone in our families. We have to support our partners through their own troubles, support our children through their own troubles, support our friends when they need it, support our communities because they need it too. Support our colleagues because it is required. Hell, if we have pets, we need to support them too.

Who holds us, though? When we need to be lifted, when we need our wounds to be licked and our backs to be rubbed, who is there for us?

I think of the character Ernestine, from Underground. This woman is fierce. She is the one the master runs to, physically and emotionally. I am thinking of the scene where she is talking him up, telling him that he will do an amazing job at pulling the votes and securing a major political position, and sends him off. She goes back to her shack and finds that her eldest son isn’t there and she becomes hysterical as some of the overseers restrain her; before we know it, we cut to the scene unfolding inside of the master’s house, where he is giving this disgusting speech while her son is hanging from the top of the stairs, obviously dead from the lynching. Even while watching the rest of the show, I was thinking: Who would comfort her? Who would hold her? It was no surprise to see her alone in the box they’d thrown her into, and it was no surprise to see her dressed immaculately once again in the next episode as though her child wasn’t killed by the man she not only literally served, but supported.

I am thinking about Nayla Kidd, the young Black woman who, in May, devised an intricate plan to ditch her life as an Ivy League student at Columbia University and went missing for two weeks. In one article, Yesha Callahan states that Kidd was not “courageous,” but “entitled and selfish.” She then implies that Kidd would be careless enough to run and go missing every time she encounters a problem. And Callahan’s ideas are a part of the problem.

We are trapped in a box where we are expected to be fearless, be strong, be magical, and not show vulnerability, and this is the problem. It is dangerous: consider the fact that Ernestine then kills her master a few episodes later. Consider that Kidd could have escaped through suicide. Consider Romechia Simms, the woman who killed her toddler son by pushing him on a swing for more than 22 hours. Who held her, who made sure she sought help before she could possibly harm her beautifully innocent child? Consider Octavia Rogers, the Arizona woman who has recently killed and nearly dismembered her three children, her three beautiful children who are no longer living. Who held her, told her that it is okay to hurt and need help before she could ever lay a finger on her children? Her sister told authorities that her life revolved around her children. She said she saw no signs that Rogers was troubled. How would we ever know that when we tell each other to simply stay strong and grin and bear it? To just do it and move on? To stop crying? 

I am not arguing for murder or for irrational decision-making. I am not saying that any of those horrific incidents are okay. I could never imagine hurting my children. They are my lifeline. But it is scary to think that these women once likely thought the same. 

It makes me wonder about the moment they stopped thinking and just snapped. 

I am suggesting that we break our curse. Instead of “tough love,” we need to strengthen our villages. We need to break the box we so easily shove each other into, and establish systems of better support. 

Come over, let’s talk. What do you need from me? Don’t lie to me. It is okay to cry. We are in this together. 

Zora ain’t lie when she dubbed us “the mules of the world.” However, even mules need rest. Even mules need to be carried. Who holds us? It is too late for so many who needed their villages. It is not too late for Kidd, though. She stepped out and dared to, and we should indeed understand it and not judge or chide. But if nothing else, it should get us thinking about how to break the box. We need to do it for the sake of our survival.

[thevenusjournals]

The Bae vs. The Bestie: Signs That You Could Be Blurring The Lines

“We are enslaved by anything we do not consciously see. We are freed by conscious perception."

Vernon Howard

As humans, we are victims and held in captivity by anything to which we are not privy. We are about as clueless and trapped as the dimwitted girl in any given horror movie. Why? Simple answer, boo: When we are not conscious of something, we are not conscious of the danger or risks it presents. So when that "something" grabs us, we are caught off guard. And, like the girl in the movie, we are at the mercy of whatever has entrapped us. 

You are frolicking around in the land of infatuation (we've all taken a trip there many times, I'm sure) and telling all of your girls about your new bae--- "He is soooo sweet, sooo smart, sooo handsome, great in bed, religious-He loves the Lord!- did I mention that he is a great listener?"---yada, yada, yada, all caught up, until the inevitable happens: you are conversing with your "bae" one night and mention something you think you should do as a couple. The line becomes disrespectfully silent, so silent you think he died or something, and he says rather hesitantly, "sure." Next thing you know, phone calls have become limited (he calls you only at night and the calls are about coming to see him or him coming to see you), he is busy "getting his life together," and you are left confused and a little hurt. You badmouth him and your girls give you the side-eye because, quite honestly, you were planning your wedding just last week. 

I'm sure you have figured out by now that he friended you. Completely took you out of one category (if you were ever there) and placed you in another. Next thing you know, he introduces you to his girlfriend as his bestie. Womp womp. *Charlie Brown-head-drop and walks away*

If I am feeling my hunnybeau beyond late-night calls and role play sessions, but I am not conscious of the fact that our relationship doesn't amount to anything outside of sex, then I am leaving myself wide open to be hurt. And really, WHO WANTS THAT?

I damn sure don't. Been there, done that, tasted it, thought it was wack, no thank you. As we get older, some of us hearing those biological clocks ticking louder than others, we are seeking clear-cut, no-holds-barred relationships and unless we are conscious of what we want and what we have involved ourselves with, we won't know where to draw the line between the "bae" and the "bestie," which leads to nothing but an enslaved mess of hearbreak and confusion. However, distinguishing the homie from the man is hard work. How do you make yourself conscious?

It starts with knowing where to draw the line when interacting with those with whom you have chemistry, and deciding if that chemistry is romantic or platonic. Once you identify that, then think: is he or she making it clear that he or she is interested romantically? If I am not, how can I communicate that to him or her? Remember that actions speak louder than words, so whatever the decision, let it be known not just by your words, but by the verbs (my rap game is getting crazy). What can we do to set clear boundaries between the bestie and the bae? Here are some tips for definitive action: 

Your bae...is welcomed to a late-night phone session or two after some time in the relationship. As long as he calls regularly during normal conversational hours, there is nothing wrong with a little private talk time. On the other hand, your bestie is not allowed to call for an after-dark session. It's too confusing and leads to a murky homeloverfriend area, one in which someone is bound to be hurt.

Your bae...can get whatever you choose to throw at him. Whether you are sexually active and have a regular sex life, or if you are celibate or just not active and choose to enjoy some intimate time regularly, your man should be getting some private attention. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, your bestie should not be getting that same type of attention from you. Unless you make it a practice to sleep or cuddle with all of your friends, taking the homie down is dangerous if you can't handle it or if you are not conscious of the signals such acts send.

Your bae...could know your "number" but be aware that many can be insecure enough to judge based on that number. It takes much strength and security to get over the "number," so be open at your discretion. It is perfectly fine to express your apprehension towards telling your number to your boo, but just be careful with that whole deal. You could end up with a nice letter A on your chest, and as for your bestie... nah, keep that to yourself and save that for your future bae, which is your bestie's cute brother. Men run their mouths as much as women, and you don't need a coochfax in the form of your friend. Let you be the one to reveal your "number" to his brother, not him.

Once these indicators are in place, you are more open to making sure the lines between both roles don't blend. And once you are conscious, you are freed of its potential dangers, and the hurt it brings. And that's all we want, right?

[thevenusjournals]

Love Rain Down: 5 Things to Consider When Looking for Something Serious

“To say that one waits a lifetime for his soulmate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soulmates, which takes a lifetime to perfect.”  ― Criss Jami, Venus in Arms

This had to be some sort of cosmic joke. I'd always prided myself on making sound decisions in my life. My career? No problem- I was in a classroom before my graduation gown was cold. Weekend plans? Solidified by Monday, thanks. I'd always believed that planning ahead saved me the drama later--thus, my decision-making ability. It was a skill worthy of being typed onto my resume. A skill I could easily corroborate with a story or two. Something to be proud of.

But I struggled with love. No decision I'd ever made in love seemed to be fruitful. I moved like my heart commanded, but gambling always left me broken and exhausted. 

Enter God and his sense of humor.

I had been single. Needed time to really understand myself. I believed I was happy: I could go and do what I wanted whenever I wanted and didn't have to explain myself to anyone. I didn't have to worry about being hurt by anyone; I simply didn't invest. Singlehood was amazing. 

So why was this man stuck in my head?

We couldn't work. I was no good for him. I didn't hesitate to tell him that, and walked away with no problem. I silently sorted through my confusion with God: "Lord, why do you keep placing this man on my spirit? What am I supposed to do with him?" 

The answers came when we reconnected. I'd mustered up the energy to call him from my hotel room while I was on a retreat. We'd just had girl talk and once again, he was in my head, so I called. We talked, and talked, and talked some more. I ended the call feeling like a new person. 

Less than a year later, we were married and expecting.

But I'll save that tea for another post. So how do we use our own intuition to find our potential mates? Here are 5 tasks we should consider completing in order to find someone marriage-worthy (at least for ourselves):

1. Use your spirit of discernment.

We've all heard the story of the man who was drowning and asking for God's help. He ignored the boat, the airplane and the cruise ship (according to some variations). When he died, he went to Heaven and angrily asked God why his prayer for help wasn't answered. God told him that he did, in fact, answer his prayer: the boat, the plane and the ship were his answers to the man's prayer, but the man missed it. 

We pray for success in love, then ignore the signs that clearly point us in the right direction, so we continue to drown. We want marriage and children and yet we continue to date someone who doesn't believe in marriage and detests children. We want commitment and try to get it from someone who runs from any form of commitment. Brother doesn't even want to sign a 2-year agreement for his phone and we expect him to go out and buy a ring? These are all signs, all entry points to our spirit of discernment. We have to decide when we've found someone worth our excitement, and when we just need to cut our losses. If you have expectations for your own happiness, and your significant other isn't meeting any of them, why would marriage change that? Walk away. Listen to your own spirit and follow it--it won't steer you wrong. 

2. Don't be afraid to revisit your list of has-beens.

Did you break up with him because he hated going out and you were in your "social butterfly" phase? Did his snoring provide the nails for the coffin? Could those reasons be any more superficial? 

Go back through your contact list (no one has black books anymore, duh). Revisit those you've dropped for no good reason, and be open to getting to know them for real this time. As someone who is exploring the happily-ever-after with an ex, I can attest to the fact that revisiting that list may be worth it. Besides, the town gets smaller when we don't. Slim pickings make for desperate decisions. Ugh. Who wants that?

3. Empty the baggage. Like, right now.

This comes after #2 for a reason. My husband was my ex, and we broke up because I needed to be alone. I realized during my time alone that I still had baggage from previous relationships.  I then had to decide if I wanted to be a bag lady any longer. 

Forgive those who have hurt you. Forget the reason why you've become so guarded and look forward to having fun. Don't punish the next man for the sins of the ex-man (I should be a rapper). Life is way too short to hold on to past hurt. Let it go. Right now.

4. Date yourself first.

And this is why I loved being single. I would dress up, makeup and all, and take myself out to eat. I spoiled myself with shopping and spa days. I developed my love of writing, even connected with other writers. I was already in love with myself when I got back with the man who became my husband. I discovered things about myself that made me appreciate me more. In turn, I felt more valuable in my relationship and was treated as such. My husband honors me more than I can stand, because I know my worth. Know yours. 

5. Be honest with all parties involved.

This includes yourself. Don't force yourself to date someone you found to be obnoxious for the sake of dating. Be honest with both you and him and end it where it stands. If you've acted a fool with that fine guy you dated and want to apologize, then do so. 

If you are fine where you are, that is okay, but don't act like you aren't. Be honest with where you are and where you want to be. The more transparent you are about who you are, the closer you are to finding what you want. 

God definitely pulled a fast one on me. My head is still reeling from this one. Had I not paid close attention, I woud have never reconnected with this man in one of the best times of my life. 

[thevenusjournals]

The Girl Fight Games: Are You Not Entertained?!

I take pride in being an educator. There is nothing better than having a bad day and coming into a classroom of wide-eyed, lip-glossed, gum-popping girls who are focused on making you laugh uncontrollably, which always happens in the first ten minutes. They leave and so do the problems that existed outside of your classroom. Kids are bundles of joy, whether they expect to be or not.

They are also messengers of a not-so-sweet reality when they want to be.

We were all in my classroom discussing reality TV. The nonfiction article we were reading held the premise that perhaps seeing others being emotionally and physically beaten on "reality" TV was not the best idea for children; my students were up in arms over it. Many of them talked of tuning into "ratchet TV," which consists of Bad Girls Club, Love and Hip Hop, Real Housewives of Atlanta, and others I am forgetting to mention, but are just as scandalous. Our class discussion went from watching girls ripping tracks from each other's heads and dragging their housemates or "friends" across groomed lawns amidst rolling cameras and money-hungry producers to the "slap cam." 

"Slap-cam" refers to the act of one slapping the bejesus out of someone while being taped on someone else's phone. The actual slap is only occurring to the knowledge of the slapper; the one being slapped is usually left hurt, confused and embarrassed. To add major insult to unforgettable injury, the videos are then posted online for some lucky viewer's enjoyment. I took a quick survey: I asked if anyone had ever participated in this "slap-cam" business. Out of twenty three, 14 girls raised their hands waywardly.

Their faces read pride, defiance: "I'm about that life." I couldn't be more disgusted.

We spoke of the video of a girl named Sharkisha* (sigh) and I couldn't help but to be saddened by their enthusiasm. Their connection between "reality TV" and reality on TV was uncanny. Their reactions to the video? Much like their reactions to any VH1 or Oxygen show. "She needed to get her! That was her friend!" and "She beat her down!" was what I heard the class say as I watched how the minority-the girls who did not agree and do not support "ratchet TV"- shrank in their seats and rolled their lips inward, refraining from disagreeing out loud. I raised my voice and said, "Nope. We will be getting down to the nitty-gritty of this matter." The class quickly became quiet, and just like the children they are in age, glanced at me expectantly, waiting for my own perspective, my outlook, my opinion. 

Like many of them, I grew up in the projects. My own life was far from perfect. From young I had been taught to fight or flee. Fleeing, though, came at a price: THINGS WOULD ONLY GET WORSE. Bottom line: I was forced to fight and hated it. As I became more socially and racially conscious, I realized that fighting in our communities can easily be compared to a cockfight or gladiator game: it becomes a thing to enjoy. 

Particularly, when it comes to girl fights, the attitude of the majority becomes somewhat celebratory. We watch movies and sit on the edge of our seats when the girls fight. We cheer on our favorite girls and laugh at the "loser." We point to bloody tracks, ripped blouses and bras, and lumped faces. We have not only become desensitized to violence, but we are now no different than the spectators in the Roman arenas. We want blood, tears, and we want it now.

Girl fights in the last few years has become a major problem: A report by the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) indicates that, in the past year, one quarter (26.7 percent) of adolescent girls participated in a serious fight at school or work, group-against-group fight, or an attack on others with the intent to inflict serious harm. Statistically, girls have taken to using their fists more than their words.

This rings differently from the concept of "social aggression," a term coined by Robert B. and Beverly D. Cairns in 1989, which is "the manipulation of group acceptance through alienation, ostracism, and defamation."  Girls were thought to express aggression through rumor-spreading and the exclusion of others from social activities or groups. Times have changed. 

Remember Joanna Ramos? The 10-year-old who died from blunt head injuries sustained while fighting her classmate over a boy? A little girl gone too soon and the other? Fighting homicide charges and being tried as an adult. All too real.

Back to life, back to reality: In my classroom, we spoke about how "reality TV" is really more scripted and fictional than they'll ever know. We spoke about Sharkisha and how her act of ignorance will now follow her and the victim for the rest of her life. We then spoke about how the media will feed and feed them until they are certain that their minds are fattened for slaughter. The girls left understanding that girl fights aren't "normal" or just something that "girls do." 

How long will that last? I don't know. Sadly, the possibility of it becoming permanent depends on way more than just a lecture in one classroom. 

[thevenusjournals]

Goodnight, Heartbreak: How To Get Over Rejection

So I’m back. I’ve spent time with myself (just a little), with my manuscript for my debut novel (yay!) any and everything but my dear Venus journals. Was working on some big moves in church, moves I’m making in the name of God. Again, avoiding this blog. Was afraid that what was on my mind would find its way onto my fingertips, spilling onto this post. Didn’t want this to be a mad black woman post. Too predictable. Didn’t want this to be a sappy, why me cue the violin and piano post either. I thought that didn’t describe what I was feeling at all. So forgive the huge time lapse in posts, as I have been doing what I promised myself I wouldn’t ever do again.

I have been nursing heartache. I welcomed her back into my abode, and we have been healing each other with stories of past tears, past sunshine after rain, past rainbows.

We were friends and I promised myself that I was good with being just that. I ignored the emptiness that crept up on me when he wasn’t around. I ignored the slight disappointment I’d felt when his name didn’t pop up on my phone. We were just friends. Friends don’t have to call each other all the time. Friends don’t have to see each other all the time. Friends don’t have to date each other. Friends should not fall in love with each other, either. Especially when its doomed from the start.

He told me he wanted to see someone. He was feeling this woman, and he was going to date her. I closed my eyes and asked that familiar feeling to stay away from me. Heartache was creeping up, asking me to hold her, love her, and I was asking her to stay away. We weren’t together often, she and I. She was there when my ex-fiance and I fought, when we broke up, when our wedding was called off. My former love lasted enough sunrises and sets to almost kiss a decade. She wasn’t around that whole time.

She was around the first time I felt rejected. She was there as my first love hopped up the stairs to be with another girl, one who was willing to do more than I was at the time. She coaxed me to sleep, allowed me to wake up to breakfast that day, showed me how to put on my poker face. With her, I learned to perfect this technique.

My poker face is perfect, but don’t look into my eyes. They reveal everything my face won’t allow me to express.

They watered when he talked of another woman he knew that day. They watered and I stared into the sky, pleading with them, begging them to stay in my ducts, to go back and never resurface. Friends weren’t supposed to break each other’s hearts. Friends should not give their hearts to each other to begin with.

What happens to a woman rejected? Does she harden like rock from lava?

I avoided him like the plague. Wanted no parts of him. He was my Achilles heel, my kryptonite, and I couldn’t allow heartache and I to be close any longer.

That conversation ended our possibility, shattered it into a million pieces. It also blemished our friendship. Later, he would ask me if I was still mad at him. A part of me was indeed angry at him. However, I was more angry at myself. He was just my friend, but I allowed it to be so much more. I tend to follow my feelings more than logic; no matter how many books suggested otherwise, I still allowed myself to feel things I shouldn’t have felt. I had fallen into a one-sided love affair.

So how does a woman heal after she has been disappointed? How does she get to a place where she is healed?

We love so hard by nature. We crave reciprocity by nature. We respond to touch, to emotional and mental stimulation. Its innate. As babies, the warmth of our mothers and fathers was critical to our survival. As children, we needed to be able to see our providers in the distance in order to play with the others. As young adults, we often became comfortable with living knowing that our parents had our backs. As we matured into adults, we went from looking to our parents to looking towards our partners.

Some have married, finding someone special to love and be loved by for the rest of their lives. Others have looked harder, responding to close calls and searching for one with whom they have the strongest bond. Some of us have fallen for others by mistake, nursing our unplanned wounds when we were bitten and trying to understand where it all fits together.

So one day, when my unplanned one-sided love affair ended, I and my heartache held each other for the rest of the night and cried. No one could comfort me at the moment. I didn’t ask to fall in love, hated that I was in it at this point. Didn’t realize I was even in it until it ended.

I am still healing. It causes me to be callous one minute and compassionate the next. I have inherited the spirit of Gemini- one twin wants to mix into something new, and the other clings to the old. The truth is this:

Getting over rejection is a process, a process that starts with acknowledgment of the damage done. I’ve had to admit that I had given myself away in order to deal with the fact that I was now a little broken.

My story, like yours, is still incomplete. Yet, the rainbow in this one is that with every truth, heartache and her presence in my life had begun to get smaller. Perhaps he never wanted me. Maybe I was a quick adventure in his quest for true fulfillment. a detour in his journey for the perfect woman. I was never perfect. My mistakes and I are intermingled for the rest of my life. I carry lessons from the mistakes in my every movement, remnants of my past and parts of my present are in my luggage as I move into my future. And as uncertain as it is in love, I deserve real love. Until I get that, I’ll enjoy the ride and kiss heartache goodbye, promising never to write in spite of the fact that she may one day return. No one is perfect. I am bound to be hurt again someday. However, with each lesson, her stay will shorten. She has no need to linger.

So I apologize for the delay in posting. I was just busy growing up a little. My hips have practiced their womanly strut, my lips their sensual pout, and my eyes their story of pain and triumph. Venus, in all her splendor, won’t let me give up hope, but I am not looking. I’ll let him find me. And if he is all he is cracked up to be, then maybe heartache won’t be so inevitable. Until next posting, hunnies, guard that thing that your body naturally protects. If you can’t, then love it like its never been broken. Even if your lover can’t.

[thevenusjournals]

Do We Deserve What We Desire?

"The course of true love never did run smooth..."

William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

I was on Facebook, just minding my business and trying to get rid of this migraine, when I stumbled on a post a friend of mine shared. The caption read, "OMG THIS WOMAN IS UNGRATEFUL" and of course, I clicked on it. So mad I did it. Curiosity kills this cat on a daily basis.

"They still make men like him, and she had the nerve to act like he was wrong for it?" I couldn't help but to blurt it out while watching this rather appalling clip posted on World Star Hip Hop yesterday. There was a married couple disputing over the cost of a damaged car on one of those court shows that come on in the afternoon, and when the judge asked the woman why she wasn't happy in her marriage, the woman had the audacity to say, "He is too nice."

Er? So you aren't happy with your marriage because your husband takes good care of you and makes you feel valued? Hold on, there is something I have for you. That's right, it's a seat. Take one. Now.

It reminded me of one of my hunnygirls, *Aria. Aria was always in a relationship with her man, and their union slowly slipped into a routine kind of situation. The danger in a relationship becoming routine sometimes is that it leads to one either looking for things  within it to fix or living vicariously through other friends. Lovergirl hears about the problems her friends have with the men in their lives, and thinks about a potential problem she may or may not have with her own boo. That little thing he did last week when he left the dishes dirty in the sink for her to scrub? Yeah, now that is a problem. And the time she told him to wait until she was ready before he...showered her with love and affection? Ok well now it's an issue. So naturally, Aria found herself falling into this trap. She began complaining about her man, intentionally picking their relationship apart. Never mind the fact that he was completely smitten with her. She had a problem with the problems that didn't exist. It wasn't broken, but she cracked it a few times so that she would have something to fix.

We have been trained, through our experiences in failed relationships, to believe that something has be hard and broken in order for it to be real. I liken this notion to a self-harm disorder. Typically, people who have suffered from the effects of said disorder cut or hurt themselves to cope with problems or things beyond their control. Things become easier when they cut. The blood becomes a reminder that there is something more painful than whatever dilemma they face, and so they use it to deal. We tend to think similarly; we start believing that love has to hurt in order to be real. This becomes our coping mechanism. When we deal with things beyond our control in our relationship (sounds weird? I know right!), we tell ourselves that pain is necessary in order for the relationship to be worth it. The pain becomes a reminder that the "love is real." Suddenly, we not only deal, but we deal with it proudly. We say things like, "I'm his ride-or-die...We've been through thick and thin..." Get it?

As a result of this frame of thinking, sometimes we want partners with these great qualities and get caught up in a too good to be true mentality. We think that if this man is too good, then something is wrong and therefore, we have a problem. The woman in the clip initially seemed ungrateful, but she was really hesitant about the kind of love her husband offered. She was waiting for him to mess up, waiting to get hurt. As I thought about it, I actually started feeling bad for shorty. 

We get so into the too good mentality that we don't expect something true blue to happen to us. If he caters to us, loves us without question and shows it freely, we give him the side-eye. We don't give ourselves enough credit to own up to the idea that we deserve someone being good to us. We don't respect ourselves enough to enjoy without looking for something to be broken. We just know that a woman will call claiming to be his wife, or that we'll catch him giving it up to his best friend Cover style in the shower. We are quick to assume that he has some deep secret and we end up inadvertently blaming him for being too "nice." The good guy is then forced to be perceived as the bad guy. Where is the winning in that? 

There is a huge double-standard that exists, and for this one, women are the wrong of the two. We expect men to treat us like royalty because we are good women, but we treat our good men like crap because all they had to offer was happiness. We expect to be honored for being loyal and sticking with our lovers, but we treat men who are the same way like they don't deserve us. 

This is when things get real. We absolutely deserve too good to be true love. We deserve it because we are worth it, regardless of who we used to be or who we aren't. There is nothing wrong with being in a solid, happy relationship. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is detrimental to a quality relationship, because it implies that there is no trust in the idea of the relationship succeeding. We do it to protect our hearts, of course, but we are subconsciously setting things up to get it broken at the same damn time. In order to love successfully, we have to think successfully. This is why pre-nups are a problem for me. In my never-been-married mind, a pre-nup indicates a lack of faith in the union and therefore undermines marriage. It's like saying Just in case, which negates the forever, 'til death do us part portion. But I digress. 

Hunny needed to be checked, but so do we. The sooner we understand that love doesn't have to involve pain, the closer we come to knowing when it's true. Ok, that sums my thoughts right on up. Back to Scandal. 

[thevenusjournals]

Do Opposites Attract?

"Bad girls ain't no good, and the good girls ain't no fun And the hood girls want a smart nigga, college girls all want a thug So it seems that we fiend what we don't need"

Wale, "Bad"

It was a cruel summer. The heat was unforgiving, the pools were crowded, and my body was begging to be touched. I was 15 years old, restless, and curious about the world that I had yet to experience. The world everyone talked about in the school hallways, passed notes about during class, the world we secretly read about in our hood books after we finished our homework (maybe that was just me). Bottom line: I was too curious about sex. I wanted to feel what the girls giggled about at lunch. I wanted to taste what they were ashamed to talk about out loud. I was thinking nasty, and I thought that the time had come to take it there.

And I did. We didn't work out. He had a girl, so I kept it moving. 

It's now fall: the leaves are turning, the world around me is a bit more colorful. I love autumn in New York City. It holds so much promise. New season, new love filling the air, new everything. I am hanging out with my girls at the park after school when I hear my name being repeated as a crowd of boys approached us. I was immediately on guard: in order to know how to pronounce my name, he would definitely have had to know me and he didn't look familiar. He was cute though; tall, a muscular kind of slim, really tempting lips and...yeah. He was cute. I was becoming more aware of myself at this point. I knew I was working with something, so I switched what I had as I sauntered over in his direction. He was staring at me expectantly, almost arrogantly, like he just knew he would have me. I spoke first.

"Why you sayin' my name down the block like we know each other like that?" Sigh. I was such a little bird. A smart, uniform-wearing bird, but a bird nonetheless. All I needed was a piece of gum and a pair of Jordans to complete the act. Hot mess.

"So what's up? You tryna give me your number baby?" Alex interrupted my young daydream, snapping me back to reality with the quickness. And I had questions. How did he know my name? Who did we have in common? I took the time to look over at his boys one by one until I saw a familiar face. I smirked when I recognized Chris in the group. I would check him later.

Alex and I exchanged numbers, and so the chase began. We didn't talk everyday, and although I had a problem with it, I was still attracted to him. I knew he didn't go to school much and that he did whatever he felt like doing, and seemed to live pretty effortlessly. I, on the other hand, did my homework on a daily basis, was rarely ever absent from Saturday school let alone regular school days, and always made it home before my mother wondered where her children were.

I was a good girl. He was a bad boy. And we flowed well together. We broke up only after I found a hickie on his neck. Like a little mitch (people really use this word?), he lied about what it was and I couldn't take it. Years later, I ran into him and found myself admiring him yet again. Why was I drawn to him?

And I repeat: I was a good girl. He was a bad boy.

Generally, people love challenges. Challenges make life a bit more fun to live, right? Overcoming or conquering challenges create a sense of accomplishment, which makes the prize sweeter. This reminded of Chris Rock's comedy, I Think I Love My Wife. Chris's character, Richard, found himself falling for Nikki (played by Kerry Washington), a bad girl with a reputation as a heartbreaker and a penchant for good guys. Although he was married, he found himself following the bad girl into bad situations, but it didn't turn him off. The emotional affair ends right before it turns physical, but the damage was done. He found himself sneaking off to be with her when he should have been home with his good girl wife. What was it about Nikki that made her irresistible to him?

Maybe it was the fact that Richard couldn't have her, or that she presented a completely different side of life. It could have been the fact that she was not easy to get. No one wants someone or something they didn't have to earn. Easy gifts come cheap, but the valuable assets require brain power, some sort of struggle. He loved the idea of her being something to conquer. This makes sense, because we love conquering challenges. How does this apply to me?

Alex was a bad boy, and I was enticed by his brashness. He was rude, a hood rebel without a cause, and I liked it. I couldn't tell if I wanted him because I wanted him or because he was someone I knew I wasn't supposed to have. Yet, when I had him, I felt like I conquered him, like the fact that a bad boy was willing to be good to me (ha!) somehow made me feel like I was doing something of importance. Perhaps I could have encouraged him to stay in school? Maybe I could have pushed him to think about where we could go as a couple? If I could do any of those things, then I clearly was a good girlfriend. As I think retrospectively, I know that it was more about the challenge than the attraction.

So what makes us want to love on the greener grass on the other side? Anyone who seems to be the opposite of who we are presents not only a challenge, but a balance. We are naturally attracted to what or who we have yet to draw into us. It's easy to get the girl who stares and brushes against you regularly, but the girl who barely makes eye contact and always looks bored with you is the person you want to know better. Why? Because there is some part of you that wonders why she is bored, and another side of you that wants to prove her wrong. Similarly, it's easy to let the guy who compliments you at work finally get the chance to take you out, but the man who barely knows you exist is the one you want more. Why? Some part of you really wants to show him what he is missing in you. So you think about him when easy guy is talking your ear off. If you could just have a piece of him, perhaps you could change his mind. 

Who better than a thug to keep a good girl down to earth, a nerd to keep a material girl grounded? Too much of one thing is never a good thing, so to fall for someone who possesses the same demeanor, mannerisms, or tendencies as I have makes no sense.  

It can be even more than the challenge: we are what we eat. In other words, there is some part of us that is subconsciously identifying with qualities we find attractive in others. The good girl may have a bad side that is drawn to the bad boy, and vice versa. There was some part of me, my "baddie" side, that felt like this was going to be fun. I was quiet, but could be loud. I was reserved, but got wild whenever I felt the need to do so. And when it came to other matters, I let my actions do the talking. Perhaps it was this "alter ego" that attracted him to me and I to him in the first place. Maybe I saw something in him that reflected a piece of myself.

But when it came down to him, I walked away feeling the same way I did when we broke up years before: it was too much to handle. Challenges are cute, but in the midst of the chase, sometimes we lose ourselves. We get so caught up in "winning" that often times, we lose sight of the person. If there are too many red flags, that challenge may need to be abandoned. I couldn't revisit the times I wondered where he was, the times I'd forgiven his little mishaps. I stayed with him to prove to myself that I could, and in the thick of things, my grades suffered, I stayed out later and argued with my mother more, and became insecure when it seemed like things weren't going my way. At some point, loving myself became more of a need than accomplishing this goal. And yes, it was fun while it lasted, but this good girl didn't stick around to finish last. 

I'm out. I'm all written out for the day. Wale was definitely on to something when he mentioned the attraction of opposites. However, "bad" as it seemed, opposites connecting never felt so good.