24, Aspiring Part-time Writer, Currently working on second draft a Fantasy Fiction Series titled "Heirs of Valor." Im also working on a kind of erotic short story about a virgin named Candice. I occasionally write essays and personal stuff too. Hope something touches you in a sincere and kind way
In my PokémonGO adventures, I come across the oddest events. This is my first field report to Professor Willow, as I observe a mismatched Pokémon pair who prove kindness warms the coldest Winter!
It is not okay to walk up to your Black, natural hair wearing co-worker who just so happens to have their hair in a bun for the day and say, "I like your hair better up, you look so... sleek and sophisticated." This statement is not a compliment. It is offensive and implies that when her/his hair is out, it is unprofessional. Telling them you like their hair "that way" or "like that" is also offensive. The appropriate response is to simply say "I like your hair" or nothing at all. Preferably nothing at all.
Sincerely,
Your Black, natural-hair wearing, sophisticated coworker.
I got a piece of news today that I had been dreading for years. My Dad called to tell me that our dog passed away today. I am so heartbroken and I've cried for hours. It was so sudden because my family was all together just last week and he was fine. What's strange is that last week before I left for home, I decided to give my main character a childhood pet. The pet passes away while he was a child but he always remembers it and it's a catalyst for a major decision he makes throughout the course of my novel. It was just a random part of the story that I made up but I loved it once I wrote it. The timing is real weird. Now I have to find things to keep my mind off of my dog. I know he's in a better place and free from whatever happened to him. I'm worried about my mother and how she's taking it. Pets are family in my home. They always have been and always will be. I made it that way for my main character too.
Wrote a long piece about my hurr (hair) today. It was quite therapeutic to be honest. There is something healing about writing about things that have bothered you for so long. It’s like a self-confession.
Any who, I need to get to writing my fantasy novel. I wrote a new scene on Saturday, but this individual decided to stand next to where I was sitting in Starbucks and talk very loudly to the waitresses so I cut my writing short. I’m eager to finish this scene though. I didn’t expect to write it at all, but I’ve been daydreaming about it and I really think that it will blend well with the story.
Also, does anyone have a website for their writing. If so what are you using and how did you go about setting it up.
I have struggled with my hair since I was a young girl. I’m not exactly sure what grade of hair I have but I’m sure it is a 4-something. It is kinky, unmanageable, and frustrating. Learning to embrace such a grade of hair has been a lifelong struggle for me. I was in Elementary school when I realized my hair was different from the other students in my class. Their hair was straight and blonde. It blew in the wind and they could easily sling it back into ponytails without a brush or a comb, or grease. My hair was a polar opposite. As I got older I realized that my hair was different from my own sister’s hair. I realized that she had “good hair” and I did not. When I finally did learn to embrace my natural hair I realized how confused people can be about what it means to be a Black woman with hair like mine.
My hair was relaxed when I was younger, and was that way for as long as I can remember. I don’t remember when my first perm was or even what it felt like. I do remember that getting ready in the morning required at least thirty minutes of hair grooming. My mom used to sit me in a plastic white chair. She used to use those hair bows with the big balls on the end of them that make a “clanking” noise if you play with them (which I did often). My mom had a plastic bag filled with these hairbows. My favorite one had some sort of Pokemon painted on the balls. My mom used to create these weird ponytail hairstyles with them. Sometimes she would do “plaits” (or twists), carefully parting my hair and greasing my scalp as she would do them. Her parts were always perfect and I could always see the white of my scalp when she was done. I very rarely wore my hair straight down when I was young. My mom always added some sort of braid or ponytail that hung over my face. I did not know how to recreate my mom’s hair styles so I had to be sure not to touch my hair when I was in school.
The hot-comb was also a staple in my house. My mom had the plug in eye and everything. That comb burned my ear so many times, but I used to love hearing the grease on my relaxed hair fry when she would run the comb through it. I still remember the smell of frying hair and the sound and feel of her breathe blowing against the steaming comb to cool it down. I remember flinching when I could feel the heat of the comb nearing my ear or my scalp. I remember the very few, and very painful times my mom would accidently put the comb to close to my scalp. She would always apologize and try to rub it or put cold grease on it.
Despite the hard work that my mother would put into my hair every morning, growing up I was a “tomboy.” I used to run around the playground hitting boys, and pissing them off. It was my favorite thing to do. If my mom did any sort of ponytail with my hair, that pony tail was guaranteed to be a mess when I got home. Strands of hair were guaranteed to be sticking straight up from my scalp and that is only if the hairbow didn’t fall out of my hair.
As I got older, around eight or nine, I stopped caring about my hair looking nice. Picture day was always funny. The photographers would have their combs out, ready to comb some blonde hair out of the faces of pretty white girls. Then there was girls with hair like mine. The photographers didn’t know what to make of my hair, especially if my mother had done my hair in some weird ponytail style. There was no hope for me as far as picture day came if I had ruined my hair at any point during the day. We would also have wacky tacky day at least once a year, and I loved it because it meant that my mom did not have to do my hair that day. My hair could be a wild mess, it could be free. Or so I thought. A memory still lingers in my head. A male student told me “Your hair looks wacky tacky everyday.” At the time, I thought I didn’t care about that comment.
I can’t remember how old I was or why I started to hate my hair. Maybe it was the fact that I used to play with Bratz dolls, and every single doll had long straight hair? Maybe more people said hateful things to me about my hair? I just remember thinking to myself that if I had longer hair, more manageable hair, that I would be prettier, and that boys would like me more. I used to flip through yearbooks and imagine I was a pretty girl with long straight hair. Sometimes I would pick a random girl from my sister’s old yearbooks and pretend I was her in my daydreams. I would change my name and everything. Sometimes they were a different race from me but they always had long, straight hair.
When I got to middle school my mom still did my hair, albeit, she no longer did the pony tail styles. Instead she started using a curling iron and curling my hair into these unflattering old-school...shapes. My hair started breaking off in middle school too. It was long when I was in Elementary school but it started getting shorter and shorter the older I got, and probably the more relaxers I got.
At the start of seventh grade, I had cornrow extensions. The extensions were long and for the first time I actually felt pretty and boys were actually starting to like me. I used to sling my long, fake braids around one side of my shoulder because I thought that made me look prettier. Then I met a group of girls who decided to make my life a living hell in seventh grade and what little bit of confidence that I was gaining in myself faded away. The extensions also had to go. I had left them in for too long which caused further damage to my hair, but my hair no longer mattered in seventh grade because I had much bigger worries.
When I started the eighth grade, I desired to reinvent myself. My mom would always get me one professional perm per year, usually before the start of the school year. All of the rest of my perms would come out of a box. I loved the way my hair looked after a fresh perm. It was still short, but atleast is flowed freely through the air, and didn’t stand up in the back if I leaned my head down. I looked pretty with my hair straight too. The perms usually only lasted a week or so and then I would be back to trying to straighten my hair to manage it.
It continued to break off throughout high school. The only time I ever truly liked my hair was when I would get a fresh perm. I remember my mom applying vaseline to the edge of my face in case the lye fell on my skin. I learned to keep the perm on my hair for as long as possible in order to achieve the best results. My scalp would be on fire before I would tell my mom to start dunking my head under the running sink faucet. I spent so much time under the faucet in my parents kitchen. That is what I remember the most about box perms. Salon perms didn’t require as much head dunking but hair stylists are not as gentle, (or caring) as a mother is. Once, one of the women who did my hair dropped some of the lye onto my bare forehead. She wiped it off with her finger and kept it moving. My forehead had a nasty, crusty red bruise on it for weeks.
Growing up, I never paid attention to the fact that my sister and I had two different hair textures. I didn’t realize this until I started wearing the cornrow extensions. My sister was rather condescending about me wearing those. I remember once she teased me for wearing “horse-hair weave” My sister never needed to wear a weave. She has some kind of three-something hair. Her curls are pretty and bouncy. When we were younger she wore it straight often. She endured the hot comb and perms too, but not nearly at the rate that I did. My mom didn’t spend hours trying to get my sisters hair to cooperate. My sister, even though she didn’t have hair like the blond white girls I went to Elementary school with, had manageable hair. I wouldn’t learn that my sisters hair was considered “good hair” until I was in my late teens.
When I was a senior in highschool, my sister called me to tell me that she was going “natural” with her hair. This was in 2010 and going natural wasn’t nearly as popular as it is now. I, like so many others, thought she was going to cease washing her hair. She explained to me what natural really meant, and I began to ponder if this was something I should do. I was getting ready to go to college in the fall of the next year and I knew I wouldn’t be able to do my hair. I never figured out how to properly straighten my relaxed hair. I didn’t know how to curl it and it was too short for a ponytail.
There was another girl at my highschool named Brianna who had went natural with her hair. Her hair was like mine, thick and kinky, but it looked nice. She used to do nice updos and blowouts and I started thinking that maybe I can get my hair to look like that. I told my mom I was thinking about going natural with my hair and her response was “So you going to walk around with an afro?”, as is if both her and my dad didn’t walk around with an afro when they were my age. My dad even has pieces of his afro taped to the back of one of his pictures in our family photo albums.
I had made up my mind. In February of 2011, my parents and I visited my sister in Raleigh and we went to a natural hair salon so that I could get the “big chop”. When I stepped in the salon and told the stylist what I was doing and she recoiled. She told me that I should just go to a barber shop because I would look like a little boy when she was through. My sister had noticed the woman pull me aside and she text me to tell me not to let that woman talk me out of getting my hair cut. Another stylist cut my hair for me and afterwards my family and I went to buy me an onslaught of natural hair care products.
My hair grew fairly quickly. By the time I attended undergraduate school it was a TWA. I used to buy flower accessories to put in my hair to make myself look less boyish at this stage. I liked that I no longer had to worry about strands of my hair sticking up or relaxers. My TWA was surprisingly simple to manage and I was not in a rush for it to grow long and full. Nevertheless it did, and by the time I graduated from undergraduate school it was long, big, and fluffy. It was still hard to manage, but I was beginning to accept my hair the way it is.
“Good hair” is a rather interesting concept. The Elementary school I attended was majority White. Both my sister and I are very light-skinned and we were never considered to be just Black. Indeed we are not, because I took an Ancestry DNA test this year and found that I do have a substantial amount of European ancestry despite the fact that both my parents are African-American as are their family members. We didn’t know this when we were younger and our parents (who most likely did not know either) always told us that we were just Black. As I grew up, I realized that the only thing people used to identify me as Black was not the color of my skin but the texture of my hair. Even in its relaxed form it was thick enough for people to know that I was Black. As for my sister, her hair is an anomaly. It is an indication that she is mixed, but I am not sure how many people assume my sister is actually Black. Both her and myself, have gotten Mexican, Puerto Rican, Dominican, and the occasional Islander. I get these assumptions, but everyone knows I have some kind of Black in me, especially now that I am natural. I am not sure how often people assume my sister has any Black in her at all. It is entirely possible for her to pass as White-Hispanic or some other mixed race woman. She doesn’t do this on purpose, but it is just a consequence of being an African-American woman with “good hair” because people on the outside looking in do not think it is possible for an African-American woman to have “good hair”.
There is no clear definition of what “good hair” actually is. It is a social construct most likely started by White people to divide African-Americans. Hair that isn’t blonde and straight is usually not considered good hair in White communities. If you are Black, however, and you’re hair is long and manageable like that of my sisters, a white person may consider that you have good hair for a Black person. It isn’t as good as theirs, but it’s better than Black people with hair like mine
It is clear that hair like mine never was and never will be considered “good hair” in the White community or the African American community. When my hair was relaxed it wasn’t considered “good hair” to White people because it was still nappy. It also wasn’t considered “good hair” to the African American community because it was chemically processed… and still nappy. My relaxed hair was never good hair to begin with because it was unhealthy and dry and was breaking off my scalp like a Nature Valley granola bar. Now that my hair is natural and long, it is still not considered good hair in either community. I know that wearing my hair natural curbs my dating potential. African-American men would much rather date a woman with hair like my sister’s or a white girl with flawless blonde hair. They want hair they can run their fingers through and hair they can play in. You can do both of those things with my hair on a good day, but they don’t know that or care to find out.
Older Black women also do not enjoy the natural look. It doesn’t fit in with many of their “respectability politics.” I straightened my hair for my graduation from graduate school because I highly doubt I will go back to school and I wanted to know what it was like to wear a graduation cap the “normal” way without the use of bobby pins to keep it on my head. I went into work with my hair straight for about a week and an older black woman who worked with me told me that I should keep my hair that way. Truthfully, many people told me that I should keep my hair straight, but it always cuts the deepest when a black woman tells you should wear your hair straight.
Another thing that happens when you have hair like mine and you wear it natural is that White people view you as defiant or believe that you are making a political statement. I live in a rural, majority white town for now, and I wear my hair out in a afro most times. People here stare at me as if am walking around butt naked. They look up at my hair as they talk to me and they think that I don’t notice it but I do. I will admit, sometimes I do wear my afro out on purpose, just to trigger them because it is not my fault that they view my hair as some sort of political statement. It is not a political statement but it is the way my hair naturally grows out of my scalp. It grows horizontally instead of vertically. Us Black folks didn’t make our hair into a political statement, White people did that. If they don’t like the way our hair grows out of our scalp then they need to take it up with God.
Finally, there are the every day trials and tribulations of having hair like mine. The hair straightener kiosks at the mall never bother to approach someone with hair like mine. They know their stragtheners won’t work on my nappy ass hair. There is the ever present worry of going on a job interview with my natural hair and fearing that the interviewer will deem me unprofessional for wearing my hair the way it naturally grows out of my scalp. Both my Dad and my sister recommended I keep my hair straight for interviews but I can’t afford one hundred dollars per interview. I worry how my hair texture will affect my dating life if I ever do decide to date. I know that many African-American men are not fond of hair like mine, and I am willing to date outside my race, but I don’t know how many non African-American men are fond of hair like mine. There is also the ridiculous personal anxiety of a bug falling into my hair and eating through my scalp. The other day I picked a bug deep out of afro and flung it into the street. Then there's the realization that there are some styles I will never be able to do without having to pay an arm and leg and a torso. Doing a simple bun takes time and patience. Living in a rural area also means that most stores do not sell the products that I use frequently. I am no longer a product junky but I still have to drive an hour into the city to find some of the products I use to deep condition because a rural white town is not willing to accomodate the few people here with hair like mine.
I am 24 years old now and I am still learning to love my hair. Sometimes it still frustrates me because I think of all the ways the texture of my hair has held me back in life. I think of how much prettier I would be with straight hair, whether or not boys would have liked me more if I had “good hair” in high school. I still like to imagine what my life would be like if I had gotten my sister’s grade of hair. How much easier it would be for me to love myself. I didn’t get to pick my hair texture. It’s one of the things God gave me to work with but unfortunately the world isn’t so accepting of a person's natural God-given attributes if they do not understand it.
Still, I am proud of my natural hair and I do appreciate it and like it most days. Some days I love it. It suits my face better than straight hair does. It is long and I love to wear it big and blown out whenever possible. It reminds me that I am a Black woman. It reminds me of who my ancestors might have been. In a lot of ways, it reminds me of where I might have came from. It reminds me of where my original home might be.
I don’t know when or why my mom started relaxing her hair, but I still remember the annoyance she displayed when I told her I was going to go natural. After I cut all my hair off she gave me one of her old, black, plastic afro picks. A few months later she started transitioning to go natural with her hair. She has been natural for several years now. I have been natural for seven years. Whenever I go home, I look on my moms vanity mirror in my parents room. She has a metal afro pick with a black power fist on the handle of it. I don’t know when she got it but I like to imagine that she got it back when she was my age and that she kept it all these years. I don’t care for metal afro picks, but sometimes I am tempted to steal it. I always decide against it because I’d like to think that this pick is special to her. I’d like to think that this pick reminds her of her home. I’d like to think that this pick reminds her of who she is and who she was created to be.
Dern, this week is another tough news week. My anger is getting worst with every piece of bullshit news I hear about the US government and their dumb laws and rulings that are seemingly coming out of the blue. This country isn't even a democracy any more (not that it ever REALLY was). All this silliness is definitely informing the political world in my fantasy novel though. In alot of ways the two are beginning to parallell one another, which isn't surprising.
I've been going to cafes straight after work to work on a chapter or two since I know I wonder do anything if I go straight home. Becoming addicted to Pokemon go also helps because I have to get out of my apartment to spend stops haha. I carry my laptop with me too and goodness have I been productive lately! I think at this point, I need something to tear my mind away from the news. I need some way that I can express how I feel and also distance myself from the turmoil and writing and Pokemon Go help with that.
I just don't know what else to do, I'm so drained and everyday it gets worst. Thank God I can always write.
This week isn't going so well news wise. I don't know what happening with the world but I wish I could be louder, I wish I could do more to help those in need but I have no clue where to start.
Anyways, I keep telling myself I need to develop a writing ritual. My goal is to complete at least 1000 words for my fantasy novel a day. I think that is realistic and attainable. I've been avoiding working on it because of my anxiety. I just feel like the story isn't coming together well, but I know I have to write through it.
I was supposed to start yesterday but I got side tracked with news about that rapper. Violence prevention is my public health passion and I honestly spent all night last night thinking about that rapper and his victim. I've said what I felt like I needed to say about that issue. Sometimes, with everything happening in the world I feel so hopeless, like what can I really do to help with anything?
I know that for now, I can write. I can write my opinions and post them. I can work on my fantasy novel that touches on everything near and dear to my heart. I can work on my for fun short story. I can do these things until I can finally leave this small town and find a way to use my voice. Maybe then I'll be ready to tackle some of the things that are bigger than myself.
Also, we need to get more serious about treating mental health issues in African American men. This rapper had a rough upbringing and he genuinely needed mental health treatment. No amount of rapping was going to save him from abusing another woman. He would have done it again, and again and that is unacceptable.
I once interned in a jail where I met young boys just like him who are lost and power hungry because all they have ever known is violence. They need mental health treatment in order to change because they have significant ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) that have effected their development. So many of them will never get it because mental health treatment in the AA male community is very stigmatized.
We cannot save these abusive rappers by elevating their careers and attending their concerts. They need real help from real specialists. XXXtentacion is not the first abusive rapper with a past and he will not be the last if we do not get serious about mental health in our community AND ALSO hold these men accountable for their violence by ceasing to consume their product and beliveing their victims the first time.
Honestly, this all very sad, but we have to stop supporting artists who are abusive towards women just because they are Black. I am Black and I am all about Black empowerment and repersentation, but I refuse to support an artist who is abusive towards women for the sake of empowering my people. I would rather have no repersentation at all then be represented by men who exhibit such apathy towards women. What happened to XXX Tentacion is sad but he should have never had his career. His career was elevated because of his abusive tendencies. The woman who he abused will have to live with the effects of that abuse for the rest of her life.
We have to stop this maddness. Everytime we allow artists to prosper, even after committing atrocities, we shit in the face of the women they have abused. Black empowerment is important but is it really worth it if it comes at the expense of women? It doesnt have to be this way. We can stop demanding the product and start holding these artists accountable. I made the decision in undergraduate school to stop consuming the product of artists who disrespect women, and I have never been more confident in that decision.
“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” - Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
I am appalled at some people's lack of apathy towards how the Trump Administration is treating people all across America. Everyday there is a new scandal and it’s painful to see so many people turn a blind eye. It burns me up and I honestly don’t understand how other people could be so flippant.
Since this administration has taken office, they have attacked so many of our fundamental rights. They have attacked African American’s right to protest, women’s reproductive rights (both rights to abortion and contraception, which is just ridiculous), the LGBTQ community and their rights to serve in the military. They have called for a ban on Muslims, immigrants and refugees. They have ignored children’s cries for gun control and their right to go to school without fear of being murdered. They have attacked people’s right to affordable health care. Now they are literally locking up immigrants in cages, giving them aluminum foil as a blanket, and ripping their children away from them.
There are alot of people speaking out and there are a lot of people who are staying silent. Those that are staying silent are speaking louder than those that are not.
I watched a video of several protesters interrupting a Pence speech. They asked him why he was ripping children away from their families. I was proud for a moment, then I saw some of the people in the crowd scowling at the protesters as they were escorted out of the room. Pence continued talking about “America.” My blood began to boil. I just do not understand how people can watch these atrocities happening daily in this country and continue to support members of the Trump Administration.
In high school, my English teacher always talked about how most people won’t care what’s happening if it isn’t happening to them. I understand that and we are all guilty of that but when do we say enough is enough? When do we say, “this may not affect me but it’s affecting other people so I have to take a stand.” When do we start caring for others just for the sake of caring for others?”
I don’t know what it takes to get people to care for others, more specifically and honestly, I don’t know what it takes to get White republicans in this country to care about others. They think that because these unjust laws aren’t affecting them personally that it’s okay to turn a blind eye. It is not.
Imagine a world where Donald Trump had his way in regards to people who do not look or think like him. A world where every single African-American went back to their respective African countries (which would be impossible because many of us cannot pinpoint a single country of origin in Africa that we may return too). Every single immigrant returns or is forced back to their country of origin. American Muslims also return to their respective countries. The LGBTQ community decides to stay silent. Women of color decide to stay silent and do as they are told. Every teacher is strapped with a gun and no child is allowed to complain about it. White supremacist freely roam the streets and proudly raise their confederate flags, salutes, and tiki torches in victory. I suppose these White people who turn a blind eye think that if they just keep their head turned long enough that this is what America will look like. Paradise.
No!
These White people do not understand that Donald Trump and his administration are crazy and power-hungry. If such a pseudo paradise were to be achieved in this country, the Administration would grow restless and bored. They are nothing more than parasites who feed on whatever they can find. It’s only a matter of time before the Trump Administration finishes what they have already started and completely destroys the rights of every White women that voted them into office in 2016. He will attack the poor, and the uneducated and so on and so on. It will never end. Evil continues to thrive until there is absolutely nothing left to leech on. It doesn’t matter what color your skin is.
If Adolf Hitler had had his way with Jewish people, would he have called an end to concentration camps? While Jewish people suffered the most casualties during the Holocaust, they were not the only one’s sent to concentration camps. Jehovah Witnesses, people with disabilities, homosexuals and various other groups of people were killed during the Holocaust. Millions of non Jewish people were killed in the Holocaust. Adolf Hitler was not going to stop at Jewish people.
I write all of this in hopes that if maybe these apathetic White people could imagine a world where their basic human rights are threatened, maybe they would care about the lives of others. Maybe they would care about the injustices that people of color face in this country every day. Maybe they would realize that it’s only a matter of time before the Trump Administration comes for them too.
It’s sad that they may only choose to care if there is a possibility that they could lose their rights too. We should care whether our rights are threatened or not because it is the right thing to do. It is the Godly, loving thing to do. Why isn’t love enough for the citizens of my country? Why does there have to be a personal incentive in order to feel convicted enough to do the right thing? I don’t like that it has to be this way. but I just can’t see any other way for them to care about the atrocities that the Trump Administration has committed. If this form of motivation is what takes then I welcome it because we cannot have another four years of this. We just cannot.
I personally enjoyed the book, but there was some goodread reviews that kind of pissed me off so I addressed my issues with them in my review below.
I'm not much of a fan of YA novels but I really enjoyed this book. The protagonist, Starr Carter is well developed and complex. She has witnessed many things in her 16 years of life that no one should ever witness at any age. It's nice to see her develop more self-confidence as a young African-American girl throughout the course of the book and eventually find her voice.
The actual book itself is well written, and I liked the first person narrative and how mindful Angie Thomas was that she was writing from the lens of a sixteen year old and not an older person, especially with such complex issues as racism and prejudice. The characters that Thomas created were useful in displaying how racism and stereotyping hurts everyone single one us. Not just the person who dies, or the family of the victims but an entire community. Police brutality against the lives of African-Americans is not a new and emerging issue but one that has existed for decades and needs to be discussed.
What I liked most about this book is that Thomas not only looks at how racism hurts African-American communities but she also touched on some of the everyday issues in African-American communities that the general public seems to ignore. I liked that gang violence was discussed and the pain that can be caused by "no-snitching policies" She also took the time to create imperfect characters who did questionable things for family members or for their own safety and protection. These characters gave voice to some of the young African-American people who resort to violence, and drug dealing as a way to survive rough living conditions. As someone who studies youth violence and delinquency from a public health perspective, I was pleased with how Thomas portrayed some of the realities of day to day living for African-American people living in impoverished communities whilst also having to deal with racism and prejudice.
All in all I thought this was a wonderful book and every young adult and adult should read it. There are some corny and cheesy scenes that older adults may cringe at, but there are also a lot of scenes that will have you nodding your head in agreement or laughing out loud (if you are hip to African-American culture)
I read a few reviews from other goodreaders and it was disconcerting to find that some reviewers felt as though this book was black and white in it's portrayal of Black people's relationships with White people (Especially Starr's relationships with her White friends). I did not get this at all while reading this book and in fact I often times felt Starr's pain in feeling as though she had to be two different people, depending upon which group of friends she was with. This is a very draining reality that African-Americans have to face daily in White spaces. It is not "reverse racism". I also saw comments stating that Thomas did not address issues the African-American community faces from other African-Americans (such as gang violence), which leads me to believe that some people did not read the book in its entirety because as I stated above, she did in fact call out some uncomfortable truths that happen in the African-American community such as the long standing "no snitching policy", as well as domestic violence and child abuse.
It seems as though this book may have triggered some White readers because there were not enough characters that they could personally empathize with. I do not think this book was made for White readers to feel comfortable but for White readers to understand the African-American Community from the voice of an African-American female writer who knows the issues that the African-American community faces. Often times, our stories are told by people who do not look like us. This book is also not written solely for White people, and may not be written for white people at all, but written for African-American people as a reminder to continue fighting for our right to live free from stereotypes and judgement simply because of the color of our skin. The Hate You Give little children truly does fuck everybody and this book laid it all out on the table. It is a must read for everyone who wishes to understand the African-American community and why we are so angry at the apathy of how we are being treated at the hands of police officers and people who seek to judge us because of the color of our skin.
I write everything but what I’m supposed to be writing which is my FANTASY BOOK! Needless to say, I posted something I wrote about my faith today. I always get nervous publicizing my writing about my faith because I’m scared someone may take offense but hey, I just assume no one will read it. The truth is I write a lot (a lot of nonsense) and I just get kind of tired to leaving it on my google drive because I don’t intend on doing anything with most of it but I wonder if anyone else may benefit from it so I just say, “Why not just post it? Maybe someone will read it and be moved by something. Maybe not. Either way you got nothing to lose.”
When I was an undergraduate in college I accidentally started going to church. It was never my intention, but it happened and it became a home. I loved my church home. I had honestly never felt more empowered as a woman than when I was going to that church regularly. My church was amazing, and the congregation was supportive. They always encouraged me to speak out, and get out of my comfort zone. They elevated me into positions of leadership. They were a group of warm people, and though we had some tough times, looking back, all the good outweighs the minor annoyances that seemed so intolerable at the time.
Churches are very messy places and even the best of churches filled with warm people who encourage and elevate you are wrapped in political style feuds and staggering rigidity. You can’t simply wake up every Sunday, go to church, then leave and continue on with your day. Eventually you have to get “involved.” Some churches operate as if they are coffee shops and you have to buy something in order to sit down. You can’t be a freeloader. My original intention was to be a freeloader.
In my church, getting involved was innocent enough. You could join the praise team (choir) or be an usher. In my case I did crappy poetry (I thought the poetry was good at the time but it was horrible). Even though I never planned to get involved at church, I don’t regret it. It was through involvement that I became a part of a “faith” community that not only enriched my college experience but also my relationship with God. In the beginning, I loved waking up on Sundays and piling in a car with my friends to go to church. Sunday was like Friday for me. I loved going to Bible Study, and Singles Nights and Saturday rap sessions. I loved being a part of a faith community. I began to embrace the idea of being a church girl.
Being a church girl comes with a set of rules that freeloaders never have to worry about. Being a church girl means that you have to look the part. You have to attend church regularly, your Bible has to be filled with colorful tabs to show you’ve been reviewing scripture. Your clothing choices have to be modest. During praise, you have to worship with your palms upturned, your head towards the ceiling, your eyes closed, singing along too whatever worship song is being played with passion and deep longing. If it’s an upbeat song you have to be dancing and hollering out to God how much you love Him.
I was never good at looking like a church girl. I attended church regularly, but my Bible was never lined with tabs. I wore low cut blouses because I was in my late teens/early twenties and it was all I had. During praise I would sway back and forth and observe the rest of the congregation because I didn’t understand what was happening. I never raised my hands, or shouted, or danced and that was a problem, especially if we had guest come to the church. I didn’t grow up in the church and my family is very private about our relationships with God. I wasn’t familiar with PDA for God.
Then more involved I became the more troubling being a church girl became. During my senior year, I was asked to be a leader for the campus ministry, which I felt was a great honor. Maybe I was a good church girl. For a moment I even dreamed of being a minister, or a pastors wife. As a leader for the campus ministry, I dreamed of our ministries coming together and doing one big combined worship like we did my sophomore year.
That excitement was short-lived. The rest of the girls I worked with for the campus ministry and myself were discussing these plans one day and I was told “who not to invite.” One in particular being a ministry who had a known LGBTQ person in their leadership. Another church rule I wasn’t familiar with. Your love can’t extend to everyone, especially not certain “types” of people.
As the year progressed I could feel a tension between my ministry and the other ministries, although I didn’t quite know what that tension was about. I could feel it in my bones though, that something wasn’t right. Eventually I learned that the other ministries did not like my church or my pastor because of his divorce. There were also nasty rumors being spread about my church that I knew were not true, but nevertheless, they persisted. It was all very disconcerting because I never knew church people could be so petty. I also didn’t realize that my church was considered “unorthodox.” because we had a divorced pastor. These “types” of people are not allowed to hold leadership positions within a church. Another rule. I became upset after learning this because the other ministries were preaching love and acceptance at their respective churches and people were believing that that is the type of life they were living out. I knew the truth, and that truth shook me. It was then that I knew I would never be a church girl.
Nevertheless I persisted, although I gave up the combined worship dream because I didn’t want to have anything to do with the other hypocritical ministries on campus. Then I got hit with another blow. I had blundered yet another church girl rule.
The girls I worked with weren’t particularly thrilled with me being their leader. In their mind, I wasn’t “spiritual” enough for such a role. Before my senior year, I had once confided in them that I did not enjoy corporate prayer. We used to do it every Wednesday as a campus ministry and it was usually only four or five of us present. I tried to enjoy it, I tried to connect with God that way but we would do these long and drawn out group prayers, holding each others hand as one person praying aloud turned into two people and three people and then a incoherent barrage of voices. I could not feel God’s presence during those prayers. Even when they spoke in tongues. I started cheating and going to the prayer room early and praying to God by myself until they arrived, then I would join them in prayer. I usually never prayed. I would just look at the stained glass window that sat behind the podium of the small, dark prayer room.
After I procured the leadership role, one of the girls confronted me about my lack of prayer enjoyment and asserted that I was not spiritual enough to be their leader. Another rule I couldn’t live up too. The truth is, I couldn’t live up to a lot of “church girl” rules. My church wasn’t to thrilled about my wardrobe, I didn’t read my Bible in my spare time. I was late to church often because I worked overnight on Saturdays. My non-church friends also held me to Christian rules, partially because I did the same to them. I once told one of my friends (who was a Jehovah's Witness albeit an unorthodox one from what I understand of the practices of that denomination) that I wanted to get a tattoo of a certain bible scripture that I liked. She said she didn’t understand why people want to get tattoos of religious things. I knew what she meant and I wanted to spit something hurtful back at her but I didn’t.
I tried to be chaste which I was actually good at because I didn’t care to be sexual with other people at the time, but then I found masturbation and the chastity ship sailed. Masturbation is unorthodox for a church girl especially if you do it right before you head off to church every Sunday. One of my biggest secrets at the time was that I used to masturbate in my room before almost every church service I attended during my senior year.
Halfway through the academic year, I finally realized I didn’t have what it took to be a church girl. I gave up trying to connect with the other ministries. They had their minds made up about our ministry and there was nothing I could do to change them. They continued to prosper, which annoyed me. The girls in the ministry and I had a nasty falling out. One of the girls tried to make her own campus ministry and left me completely out of her plans whilst including everyone else in our campus ministry in her plans. This broke my heart and I no longer desired to be their leader anymore. The campus ministry fell apart, and I didn’t care. I still went to church but I no longer found enjoyment in it. Everything fell apart.
When I left for graduate school I left my home church behind. I felt like a failure because I really did care about the campus ministry but I couldn’t sustain it. I couldn’t follow all of the rules that came with being a church girl. In the new city, I tried to be a church girl again, but I could never find a church to call home. I also knew that what happened at my old church was not unique, but every church has its flaws and that’s fine because churches are made by flawed humans and thankfully, they are not a reflection of the God I serve.
I watch online services for a well-known church now. I enjoy this because I am free to listen to a song without having to also play a role. I don’t have to get involved because no one knows that I am watching. There are times where I long to be connected with a faith community because it is hard navigating a secular world as a woman of faith, especially here in America under the current regime. Religion is just as messy as church but like church, religion is not a reflection of the God I serve, but a reflection of people’s ideas of who God is and what rules we should be following in order to achieve salvation. The truth is, no one truly knows what rules to follow, even I don’t. The only rule I know I should follow is to lover others and to care for others. If we followed that rule there would probably be no need for any other rule. This is why I prefer to have my private relationship with God as opposed to being a church girl. I am free from all of the rules I can’t follow no matter how hard I try. It’s harder this way. It’s more confusing this way. It’s also better this way, for me anyway.
I've had a serious writer's block lately so I've been reading instead. Finished one great book (The Hate You Give) and a good book (The Girl On The Train, which was like reading an LMN movie, not really my style but it was entertaining). Now I'm reading Iron Gold. I would do a good read review but I'm locked out of my account so Ive just been looking at others reviews. Im new to good reads and I've only reviewed one book which I gave five stars too.
I must say, I love reading one star reviews on good reads. Some people seriously put so much passion into these reviews. Some write whole essays for a book they hated. Some research pseudo statistics to support their opinions. Some actually take the the time to pull out sentences they hated the most from the book they hated. It's hilarious how much energy they put into these one and two star reviews. I genereally like most books I read. I've never really read a horrible book. If I ever do, my good read review will not be an essay. It will be something simple... Like "This was horrible." "The writing was bad." "Nah bruh."
I just can't wrap around my head why these reviewers spend so much energy on a book they hated. I can and have spent hours reading and laughing at these passionate and detailed one star reviews. It's hilarious and it really brightens my day to read those reviews. Even if I loved the book myself. Sometimes there's a degree of truth to them but seriously, if you're ever having a bad day, just read a few one star good reads review. You'll feel so much better.
So, I posted one of my wip’s on my page under Awakened if anyone wants to read. It’s only the first half of the story and it’s just something I am writing for fun and I still have a lot of work to do on it. It’s pretty goofy. My protagonist, Candice goes on a bunch of dates that turn sour pretty quick.
I’m trying to be productive and put some of my writing out so that I will be motivated to keep revising it and so that it isn’t catching dust in my google docs folder
I must say though, I have been writing something almost daily and I’ve worked on a few chapters for “Heirs of Valor” that I am actually quite proud of. They are not perfect, but they are my best work so far on that wip. I’m kind of having a writer’s block right now though so I am taking a break from it a bit.
Am I the only one that uses websites like “azaleas dolls” to create characters because I’m such a horrible artist? Does anyone else do that? lol. I’ve literally been doing it since I was a teenager and before I realized I wanted to write a book.
Just read a part of my erotic (kind of) wip that I haven’t worked on in a while and it was actually quite entertaining and good. I was surprised at myself because it’s been months sense I worked on it and I thought it was horrible then. I want to put my writing out into the world but the thought of doing that is actually terrifying. I don’t think many people (if anyone at all) read my posts but the thought of one person doing it is scary. Especially since I write about my faith a lot and I know that is sensitive for a lot of people. My solution is to post stuff at 3am when no one is on lol, at least I can say I tried. Maybe I’ll post the wip tomorrow.
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