“My boobs. are. HUGE. And heavier than I’d like them to be.”
“My poor, poor ankles…or, better yet, cankles. Why did I have to start swelling when Matt’s away?”
“Suck. Matt’s gone.:sniffle: Four.More. Days. :sniffle”
“Pickles is definitely not as much fun as I’d like him to be. He sleeps so damn much!”
“Pickles..on a burger…french fries!”
“I can’t paint my toenails. I can barely see my feet.:sigh:”
“My boobs! ”
“How does the whole shaving thing work now…?”
“I really need that burger. ASAP.”
Not much elaboration. I saw this video today in a completely different context. These are the words that I wish I’d had some 8 years ago when I began my “dating journey” for lack of better words. Being the “exotic” Black girl got old, real fast. But, more on the background later; this is amazing art.
This is a phrase that is often spoken by my family. “That woman naked as a jaybird!” “Knock before you come in! I’m naked as a jaybird in here!” Oh, I love my family and all of our cultural quirks. Yesterday, while eating the most massive bowl of cereal, I walked from the kitchen to our living room, starring at the television playing in our neighbor’s apartment across the courtyard. And then…I looked down at my Spalding shaped stomach which covered my lady parts from MY view, but not from the neighbors. And my preggo boobs. “AWW snap! I’m walkin around here naked as a jaybird!” I squealed, running to close every curtain in the room, banning even the sun from my glory.
Since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve gotten a lot more comfortable with my body. It didn’t consciously happen. I just began to become so dang on uncomfortable with my clothes always touching me, that I developed a clothing removal ritual. As soon as I enter the threshold of our apartment, first, the purse/bag is dropped, then the shoes, then pants, then bra. I just let everything hang loose. Sure, my boobs might end up kissing my knees in a few years, but maybe one of the perks of having a small rack is that they will stay put. Maybe?
I haven’t always been an exhibitionist. Of course I pushed the boundaries in high school. I never really wore a bra then either, but I got better in college. Except at night. At night, my poor bestie would often feel the ‘flop’ of my bra falling on her bottom bunk. In fact, when I got dressed in the mornings, I often looked under her bed to get my cups. When I got married, I still didn’t walk around butt booty naked. I mean, even in marriage, I think it’s important to leave a little somethin somethin to the imagination.
But, now, I have ruined my husband’s imagination . I’m not able to shave everyday. Do I care? Mildly. Does that stop me from being naked as a jaybird? No. I did propose my plan to get an epilator to Matt. He doesn’t care, and doggonit, neither do I. My body is what it is. The more time that I spend unclothed, the more that I fall in love with God and all of his power and creativity in designing the female body. The more I fall in love with my little boy who is growing and for the only time in his life, is being completely obedient and under the sole influence of God, and the more I love my body. I love being a woman. I love having breasts that will give my baby nourishment. I love knowing that while I’ve always felt that I’ve had a rather boyish body, that the Lord is using it to exemplify one of the most beautiful purposes of women; to bring life into the world.
I love that even with these small hips, I’m carrying a womb full. I love that my legs still carry me when I feel like they won’t. I love the freedom that I’m receiving with this pregnancy, (and I think Matt does too!)
So, here’s my challenge to you, women folk! TAKE IT OFF! Enjoy your bodies, curves, folds, boobies! I guarantee you that your spouse will too. (I’m not just talking sexually. The confidence that oozes out of a woman who loves her body is…attractive and admirable across the board.) If you are unmarried, GO STREAKING IN THE QUAD! No lol, jk. But DO go streaking in your house/apartment.
I found inspiration in the most unexpected of places. Love it or hate it, this little girl has enough confidence to school all of us women. Do you know a good thing when you see it? (start at 1:50 if you don’t have patience..and the parenting may scare you a bit lol)
I’m too tired to think of a real closing for this post, so, just get naked already.
Today I “Woke up Black”. This Trayvon case is weighing heavy on my heart. Unlike my sisters and brothers who are not of color, I don’t have the privilege of distancing myself and waiting for the facts to be presented. Umoja is what we live by as a people. What is often forgotten, is that slavery is only 2-4 generations away for many African/Black Americans. The wounds are still fresh. The effects still linger. I’m praying for my unborn child today. I’m praying that as a person of color, as an African-American, he or she will guard their hearts against color blindness. I’m praying that my little bi-racial baby would walk in the footsteps of his/her daddy, using whatever influence that the good Lord gives it, to build bridges and to bring awareness and light to a jaded world that unknowingly ignores injustice. I’m praying that this little baby would embody the compassion, wisdom, and power, of the many freedom fighters who have gone before it. I’m praying that this child would be so much better than I am, because my heart is hurting, and the emotion that I turn to when hurt, is anger.
I’m so angry hurt that over, and over again, my perspective and experience as a person of color has been degraded by assumptions like: “This is not a racial case”, “Trayvon wasn’t so innocent”, “We don’t know Zimmerman’s story”. I’ve reduced these very well elaborated thoughts to very simple sentences, but I think the general gist is there. Here’s the thing…the best way to put it is in the words of a famous, crude, ridiculously offensive musical. “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”. Just about everything that happens in our nation is motivated in some part by race. I’ll just leave it at that.
Secondly, we all know that many of the pictures circulating the internet of Trayvon, were in fact, NOT Trayvon. :smh: But if they were, and just assuming that everything that we have read about Trayvon and his suspensions from school, him wearing a hoodie is true, someone, please tell me, WHY DOES IMAGE IMPACT JUSTICE?! Why, oh why, oh why?? I really appreciated President Obama’s comment regarding the matter; “If I had a son, he would look like Trayvon.” Ditto, Mr. President. To know that we live in a world, where your sense of fashion dictates the empathy and compassion that others feel for you, as a soon to be mother and social worker/advocate, disgusts me.
Thirdly, it is very true that we don’t know Zimmerman’s story. I pray that the real story would come to surface, and that Latinos and African/Black Americans can begin having honest dialogue, and forgiving each other for the hurts that we have caused, both intentionally, and as a result of our cultures being pitted against one another in this nation (more on that later). But, even without the facts, we must mourn that a 17 year old child was killed, for virtually no reason. I don’t care if you don’t think that 17 is young enough to be labeled as a child; Just you wait until you’ve had one, are preparing to pop one out, or you have really thought about the life cycle, and how much more life, how many more experiences, how much more growth , should happen after 17 years.
And..I think that is the part that hurts. It hurts that once again, I feel abandoned by the rest of America. Ok, I’ll just say it. I feel abandoned, and I feel that my people have been abandoned by White America. I feel that we are mourning alone. No one stands besides us when we grieve over a lost child. Who acts as the hands of Jesus, promising to bring comfort to those who mourn? We do. As we have always done, we must stand in solidarity, because if we don’t support each other, what we have learned time and time again, is that no one will. No one. And so our walls continue being fortified. We continue gaining trust in one another, and losing trust in ‘everyone else’. We continue being the ‘other’ voice, the voice that is not justified, or rational, because we are unheard.
And while I pray that things will be for different my children, and the children of my ancestors’ wombs, I know that tomorrow will be the same. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up, Black.
Actually, she didn’t. No one really prepared me for where I am at this moment. Sure, I’ve had small glimpses, but I never expected to be here. 2011 was an arduous year, piled with painful self realizations, faith testing marital issues (I hear that’s what happens when two humans tie themselves to one another), and separating (to some extent) from the bulk of what has kept me a sane, functioning, Jesus filled person (Gainesville, all things InterVarsity, Debbie). But here I am, in 2012, wondering why no one told me this was coming! Shame on you all!
Ok, Catcher in the Rye moment aside, even if you told me, I probably wouldn’t have listened . In 2011 I was too busy stuffing my own victimization into the ears of my heart. I filled my very often, empty reflection times with trying to find escape routes from my past tragedies. I wanted a fix. I remember praying for a magical pause button. At 24 years old, I prayed that Jesus would plop down a game-boy sized life controller onto my lap giving me time to just understand what the hell had happened and was happening in my life. I spent a lot of time feeling defeated. I spent a lot of time just knowing that things would never get better. I spent way too much time asking ‘why?’ And now, here I am asking ‘how?!”
My heart was so jaded that it has been difficult to see the continuous work of the Lord’s hand in changing my heart, redeeming my past, restoring my mind and bringing peace to my soul. Today, and for the past 3 months, it’s as if everyday is morning. It took me a while to mourn the loss of my childhood, the loss of my ideal life, and now, it is morning. I have more than I have ever dared to dream for, and no one prepared me for this. The story of the blind man in Mark (8:22-25) is the only way that I can illustrate what Jesus has done to me this year. I must’ve gotten that really good, from the back of the throat kinda spit lol.
So, here I am, in my typical fashion, 5 days late, tryna think about New Years resolutions. I’ve slubbed around my apartment long enough, enjoying my break before school. Now, it is time to freakin live, doggonit. And that’s what I’m determined to do this year. I’m going to do the things that bring me life. I’m going to enjoy the good mornings with my husband. I’m going to reflect well and often on what a blessing he is to me, on the deep, incomparable, intimate friendship that I have with him. I’m going to laugh hard with him, I’m going to work on expressing myself more authentically, and I’m going to kiss him till his lips are chapped!
I’m going to dance every chance that I get. I’ve finally found a dance studio that challenges and nurtures me, and I’m going to be there, using my student discount every week till my toes bleed. And I’ll probably stay even when that happens.
I’m going to take advantage of all of the learning opportunities that I will gain while in school and during my internship. I am so proud of myself for getting into graduate school. I am the first to pursue a Master’s degree in my family. I haven’t allowed myself to feel proud, to feel empowered, to feel motivated by my success. Well, congratulations, sexy brain! You’re living beyond your dreams!
I’m going to move on. Partially because of who I am and partially because of my past, I’ve lived my life in a constant state of worry. This past year I have worried about my family, my damaged relationships therein, and making myself unhealthily vulnerable to the brokenness of others. I have learned this year that Jesus doesn’t need a sidekick. He is the one who heals; he is the one who convicts; he is the one who loves. All I need to do is follow Him, and learn to love while learning to love myself.
And finally, I am going to give thanks more often. When I think about the story in Mark, I think about those who brought the blind man to Jesus, who had to have hope that Jesus would give this man something that he’d been yearning for all his life, yet, had never known. I’m thankful for those who brought me through this year with their time to listen, their dedication to prayer, their arms and homes that brought comfort, their generosity, gentleness and hope. Thank you, Berry and Dawn, Scott and Haley, Alison and Ricky, Debbie, Rekha, Morgan, Karima. You took me to Jesus so that he could spit in my eyes lol.
So, bottoms up! Here’s to a new year of life! I’m ready to live the hell out of 2012. Literally.
-Eva
I know it’s been a hot minute since I’ve last posted: hangs head in shame: I WILL do better. Between moving, adjusting, being lazy, and having to share a computer with a graphic designer/web developer, I spend much of my computer time just doing the basics: reading hair blogs, fashion blogs, email, and youtube lol. I found this video of one of my artistic heros, Misty Copeland. Watching her always makes me want to do better with my discipline as an artist, and well… as a human being. I hope this video inspires you all.
A year later, and I am still choking on the vomit of memories that replay all too vividly in my mind. I was chased out of a place that was supposed to provide solace like a filthy, demon possessed pig. The most hurtful words to a fragile spirit were hurled at me with disgust for my very being: “You are a messed up individual!” I cried all the way home. An hour drive from Ocala back to Gainesville (luckily Matt was at the wheel). I cried for the next week. And the week after that. I told no one about this incident except for my best friend, and my now counselor. As I read these words, they sound unreal. The experience was a real life, hellish nightmare. Its crazy, for lack of better words, to be where I am now, knowing that this risk that I took, to drive an hour away for counseling, was the start to my active healing process.
As I oiled my hair this evening, I felt a surge of giddiness, widening my mouth into a child-like, goofy smile as I thought about my daddy visiting tomorrow. My daddy. My daddy is a 6’7 giant. His smile makes the moon shudder in jealousy. He makes Wolverine look like an underweight, pre-adolescent boy. He always has a kind gesture up his sleeve and I am, always have been, and always will be his baby girl. Ok, not all of those things are technically true. My daddy is actually just short of about 5’8, and well…gravity, retirement, and Neopolitan ice cream have kinda gotten the best of him, but the rest is completely true. I thought about my daddy and how he has always worked to protect me, even when years passed without me knowing it. I thought about how he made me wear long pants all of the time (in Miami!) so that I wouldn’t skin my knees in my reckless tree climbing, clothesline swinging, and bike racing. I thought about him walking me to my classroom and giving me a hug and kiss every single day of elementary school while all of the other kids were lucky if they got a parent to even drive them to school. I thought about him having the awkward talk with me in 7th grade about dressing modestly (and how I rolled my eyes and turned on my internal jukebox.). I remembered him taking one look at me, my senior year of high school, and just knowing that ‘that boy’ had broken my heart. I remember seeing the fury in his eyes and I remember feeling the comfort in his hug.
And as I oiled my hair, I stuffed my tears back into my eyes. Why didn’t I tell my daddy about this incident? He would have protected me. He would have served that crooked counselor the most intense form of justice the world had ever heard of. And with the types of people my daddy rolls with, that is no exaggeration. She would’ve been sorry for not being a better steward of her profession, ‘Christian Counselor’. She would’ve been the one, staring in the mirror with tears rolling down her face, and I would have been simply, oiling my hair tonight.
A year ago, I felt helpless. I felt like the 6 year old me, whose head was much too large for her body, but wore a semi toothless grin everywhere she went. And that is the age that I learned to hide things from my daddy. I could not let my daddy protect me anymore. I could not hold his hand and feel safe from the monster that came out at night, because, I had to protect the image of my innocence, my strength and smarts ( I was always Daddy’s smart, sassy girl). And so I stopped letting my Daddy protect me. And I have always had an outer strength, but an inner fragility.
But a year ago, I was, and today, I am an adult, and I suppose it is my responsibility to take good care of myself. I am not a helpless little girl, bound by the sin of others. I am a woman. I have wisdom, and unconquerable strength. I have a voice.
And my tears tonight, were because I did not know that a year ago. I wish I had some way to bring justice to this situation. I wish I had told my daddy, just to see once again, the fury in his eyes and to feel the comfort in his hug. I wish that I had told him so that I could see him go through extreme measures to ensure that this would never happen again. There is so much comfort that comes with justice. I wish I had known what to do, other than to retract to weeks of hidden tears and anguish. It is good to look back and see how the Lord took care of me (that horrific experience led me to my now counselor who has become a mother to me), but it is still unsettling to have felt and still feel so vulnerable, unprotected, forgotten, worthless, helpless.
I haven’t found closure. I haven’t even necessarily found peace. I am still in pain. I still have things to work out with Jesus, understanding the full range of his provision and protection. But as I think about my daddy, coming up from Miami this weekend, just to bring me a bucket of mangoes and to see his baby girl, I know that Father cares. And for tonight, that will be enough.
It has been an inexcusable amount of time since I have last written in this blog, but I’m new to this, so cut me some slack, eh? I really have thought about blogging quite frequently, but with every passing day that I didn’t, I became more and more reluctant to get back to this space that I created to expose myself and open my heart to being shaped, nurtured, and deepened by those who read and interact with my thoughts. And so, here I am. Starting again, and hoping that I will be more diligent, more disciplined in being faithful to this blogging adventure that I was so enthused about months ago.
Since the last time I blogged, I have changed. My heart feels different, my mind feels renewed, and for the first time in quite a while, I have a beautiful, unwavering hope confidence that my life, my marriage, my future, will be filled with purpose, growth, times of celebration, joy, and most importantly (for me) peace, because of the faithfulness and power of Jesus and his grace over my life. The realization and acceptance of this truth has left me feeling like I finally exhaled. So, yes, I am different. I am breathing again; trusting more in the power God, accepting the love and kindness of my husband’s heart, and I am more willingly engaging with the often times ,painful healing process that the Lord is walking me through.
I am a ridiculously reflective person. It comes quite naturally for me to journal and make self assessments for just about any experience in my life. A little over a month ago, while reading the book of Philippians, a book that I have read numerous times, this verse seemed to clamp on to my mind:
“Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.”
Philippians 2:3
As I reflected on this verse, and prayed, asking the Lord to make it my default mode, I began to become overwhelmed with sadness. It took me a while to put words to this sorrow, but I soon realized that this verse would be an instrumental component of my healing process. (I realize that using the terms ‘healing’/'healing process’ repeatedly on a blog makes one wonder,”What are you healing from?” For now, I will simply say that I am learning to come to right understandings of myself, humanity, and the true character of God. Vague enough? lol). This verse took 18 years of my life and said that it was all wrong. Everything that I had been taught, implicitly and explicitly, every motive that led my actions, it was all wrong.
I was taught to fight for myself. I was taught to never let anyone run over me, over-speak me, cheat me, disrespect me, touch my hair (it’s a black girl thing), take advantage of me, or hit me without me knocking them out.
I was taught to think about myself first and maybe others second.
I was taught to protect my belongings because they were…well…mine. My money, my food, my car, my clothes, my home, my cell phone minutes, mine, mine mine. I was taught to give to appear to be polite, but behind closed doors, I learned to scoff at those who dared to ask for MY things.
Reflecting on this verse brought me to tears as I grappled with just another radical lifestyle change that the Lord calls us to and the Holy Spirit makes possible for us to submit to. I cried for days, meditating on that verse. In the beginning, it was out of anger. I was angry that the common sense of the kingdom of God was so far from my experience and still takes so much effort to do on a daily basis. I was angry that I was not privileged to learn these things when I learned how to read, or how to multiply. And then I cried as I confessed and repented. I reflected on the ways that the Lord had/has been a Father to me since I began following Jesus 9 years ago, and the ways that he has been patient with me as I learn to spell my new names, “Chosen”, “Loved”, “Worthy”, “Forgiven”, “Precious”, and the ways that he has caught me every time as I transitioned from crawling in safe spaces to learning how to walk in right paths. And as I reflected on the grace of the Lord, and the ways that he has transformed my mind, my heart, my ‘default mode’, I confessed my brokenness, my selfishness for often times choosing to return to the lifestyle that I was taught as a ‘child’.
And then, I cried in celebration. (Can you tell that I’m an emotional creature?!) I cried in thankfulness that 9 years ago, I did not know or want to know how pouring myself out for the sake of others could bring so much life, fruit, joy, peace, and fullness. I cried and laughed (and probably would’ve looked and sounded like a dang fool) because I was in awe of Jesus and his crazy self (we’re tight. He knows what I mean), and how his insane, backwards ways actually bring beautiful redemption and restoration.
And now, after the crying (though more is surely on the way!) I am breathing. Inhaling the grace of Jesus, and exhaling, to the best of my abilities, an extension of that grace. I am clinging to Jesus, and accepting and reveling in his provision; in the tenderness and selflessness of my husband, in Mochi dates with those who have cried the tears that I now cry, in laughing long and hard with close friends, and in quiet moments of peace, I can now breathe.
Batter my heart, three person’d God; for you
As yet but knock; breath, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor even chaste, except you ravish me.
-Holy Sonnet 14, John Donne