Envy Through Binoculars: A Chat With Anxiety
It’s a typical day, my finger skating over the smartphone screen in a deft and rhythmic scroll. I pause every now and then, tapping that infamous heart, a cyber head-nod of appreciation.
And then.
AND THEN.
I see them. Who is them? Them, like the elusive “they,” is generic. You never know exactly who “they” are, so much as what “they” represent. Same difference, here. In this case, “them” is accomplished, successful, doing-the-damn-thang, killing the game, slaying, living the dream, decorating their best life with YAAAAAASSSSS-tinsel…
Everything I’m yearning and striving to be. Everything I’m not.
And right on cue, in the off-Broadway rendition of “Worst Timing Ever,” that bitch named Anxiety slides onto stage-right-on-time-ho.
Then, at the speed of a fiery stage light, the dialogue begins:
~~ * ~~
A message from Anxiety...
Anxiety: Well, shut the front door wide open, it looks like you need yet another reminder of why you’re not good enough. Shit, not even good. You ain’t enough!
Me: I…
Anxiety: Look at them! They’re on all the lists! Canoodling with all the celebrities! Have all the fans! Getting all the likes! Building all the followers! Gaining all the VIP access! Colored with all the blue checks! Shaded with all the GREEN checks! And you, sir?
Me: I ain’t no s --
Anxiety: -- Looks like you’ve “procrast’d” one too many “nations,” sis! And even when you do put in the work and put yourself out there, your reach is dust. DUST, I say! And what do you have to show for it?? A pile of demolished pints of ice cream?! Pshaw! PEE-shaw!!
Me: *crawls into self-hatred abyss*
~~ * ~~
This inner-convo curls its slimy fingers around my neck and lifts me up into a Noob Saibot-level chokehold. Oxygen becomes an unreachable luxury. I fall deeper and deeper into the worrisome wormhole. Every so often, I recite my mantra, “Comparison is the thief of joy.”
Sometimes, I believe it. Other times, it fades into a mist like a mirage. Anxiety is louder, bolder, and more persistent.
Anxiety: You’ll never be them.
Me (shaky): I don’t…want to be them. I’m me. There’s only one me.
“You ain’t worth shit,” I tell myself. Or is it Anxiety? Who knows, they have the same damn husky voice.
All I know is, it’s a forever fight to stop listening.
Tonja Renée Stidhum is a screenwriter/director with cheeks you want to pinch...but don't (unless she wants you to). She is made of sugar and spice and everything rice...with the uncanny ability to make a Disney/Pixar reference in the same sentence as a double entendre. She is the co-host of the Cinema Bun Podcast and creator of the series, Wing Chick.
More Tonja: Twitter | Instagram | Cinema Bun Podcast
A Mother's Conundrum
I want to raise her for
a world where...
please and thank you
matter
and
skin color doesn't.
A world where
nice is rewarded
and
people take turns.
I want her to be
polite
and kind.
I want her to be
patient
and giving.
I want her to share.
I want her to care.
I want to raise her
for the world I dream about
I want her to be
part of the solution
not the problem.
I want...
so much...
for her.
But we live
in THIS world.
Where
skin color does matter.
It can get you
killed
and your murderer
walks free.
Nice is seen as weak.
People don't speak.
And if you don't push your way in
you may never get a turn.
Sigh
I want her to be open.
I want her to be sweet.
I want her to give an equal chance
to each person she meets.
I want her to love peace.
I want to raise her
for the world I dream about
I want her to be
part of the solution
not the problem.
I want...
so much...
for her.
But we live
in THIS world.
So far from the one I dream about.
And although I love
my rose-colored glasses
I cannot,
for her,
deny
what
is.
This is a Mother's conundrum.
Dana Russell was born and raised in the Bronx, the birthplace of hip hop. Rhythm and rhyme were her first foods. Dana lives poetry. When she isn't doing all of the things associated with being Mother to a future boss she can be found performing at Ashford and Simpson's Sugar Bar. Dana wears her invisible tiara everywhere she goes and is known in the poetry world as HRH Dana. Don Quixote is one of her heroes and Dana spends an inordinate amount of time tilting at windmills and attempting to love the ugly, messy, beautiful world that we live in. More Dana: Web | Instagram | Facebook
How I Am Talking To My Child About President-Elect Cheeto
It happened. The orange Cheeto is president-elect. What do we tell our Black children? How do we explain this to children obsessed with fairness? The mean man won. What does it mean for them? I am mother to a five-year-old girl. I’ve been scouring the internet for guidance about how to help her navigate the current political reality. With the help of Google I think I’ve read all the blogs and articles written thus far. I have yet to find one that speaks to me and the way I am raising my Black, girl-child.
I am struggling with what to tell her. She wanted Hillary to win. She wanted to see a woman be our president. For her entire life we have had a Black president. That is her default, all she knows. She was pulling for Hillary. It was impossible for her to escape the media coverage of the orange Cheeto. Her opinion is that he is “not so nice.” He “doesn’t say nice things about people.” He is “a man who lies. He makes people angry.”
When we woke up on November 9th I had to tell her that Hillary didn’t win. She couldn’t understand. “How could he win the vote Mommy? How could more people like a man who said mean things? How could they want him to be their president? Is he our president too, Mommy? Even though we didn’t want him?” I was in my emotions watching her have her first helping of American disappointment. My knee-jerk reaction was to affirm her safety. I told her that we are okay and that we will be okay. I kept saying this over and over throughout this first conversation. I told her that she will hear a lot of adults she loves talking about this. I told her that they will be angry and some of them will be scared. I told her we are not scared. I told her that we put our faith and trust in God and in the people we know and love. I told her that Daddy and I are not scared.
I lied quite a bit in that initial conversation because I needed her to be okay. I needed her to feel grounded, protected and safe. But with my little, and probably with yours too, there is never just one conversation, is there? I’ve had a chance to add to the things I have said to her. I’ve had a chance to expand the things I have said to her.
1. Life is not fair. Good doesn’t always win. Sometimes people lie, cheat and steal and they still seem to win. It’s an ugly truth and one that will take a long time to teach but I’m starting now. I’m talking about the advantages that money, status, family, skin color and gender give to some people. I’m talking about it without flinching. “Life is not always fair baby girl and it always sucks when you see it firsthand. But we don’t do right for the sake of winning. We do right because we believe that right matters. We do right because it enables us to sleep well at night. We do right because we aren’t fighting for our right to be unfair to others. We are fighting for the right to be the rule of the land. We are fighting for right because it is right.”
2. This is why your Mommy doesn’t put her faith in a country. People make mistakes. Countries make mistakes. I pledge allegiance to my God and my family. I pledge my allegiance to the people who love me and show up for me daily. I don’t put my faith in people who just happened to be born in the same country. You can make your own decisions about this as you grow up but for me? I can’t believe in a country that didn’t even consider my ancestors human when it was born. I have tried, baby girl, and America has disappointed me every single time. I’ve had to learn to accept an America that disappoints me. This is my country. This is the land of my birth but it has yet to affirm or protect my personhood and I’m tired of being disappointed.
3. President-elect Cheeto is one person. He represents some scary people in our country. He represents people who hate us for the color of our skin and our gender. I would be doing a disservice to my child to pretend that they don’t exist. His election will make some of them think it is okay to say and do things to us simply because they hate. They will not win. We will love ourselves. We will love our family and our friends. We will watch out for each other and do the best that we can to keep each other safe. That is what we always do when faced with a threat. We stick together. I expect to see you sticking up for your friends who might get picked on by these kinds of people. I expect to see you watching out for the bullies and standing up to them. I expect you to be brave when you are moving in love. I expect your voice to be louder than theirs when you encounter them. I expect you and your friends to stand together for love. I expect you to be proud of who you are and who they are. I expect you to know that people who hate are wrong. Daddy and I will always have your back.
4. People will tell you that you must respect the President. Mommy doesn’t agree with that. We respect people who respect us. We respect the office of the president but when a man holds that office who courts hate you are under no obligation to respect him. None. I will say that again. Do not let anyone tell you that you must respect the man. The office? Yes. The man? No. People EARN respect. This man has done nothing that I respect. I believe that he is dangerous. You do not have to respect people who do not recognize and affirm your humanity. You do not.
5. You are amazing. This election does not change that. You are strong and beautiful and smart and magical. You are everything. We have a history of surviving worse odds than this. The blood running through your veins is strong. It is undefeatable. I believe that we will win. I want you to believe that too.
Dana Russell was born and raised in the Bronx, the birthplace of hip hop. Rhythm and rhyme were her first foods. Dana lives poetry. When she isn't doing all of the things associated with being Mother to a future boss she can be found performing at Ashford and Simpson's Sugar Bar. Dana wears her invisible tiara everywhere she goes and is known in the poetry world as HRH Dana. Don Quixote is one of her heroes and Dana spends an inordinate amount of time tilting at windmills and attempting to love the ugly, messy, beautiful world that we live in.
#ForTheCaretakers
...and then there are those nights.
when shame and guilt streak
sheets.
Faces.
and wet eyes ask silent questions
you will never know how to answer
Because you cannot stop Time
or slow his march through their body
This disobedient body
that no longer takes orders
from the spirit it housed
that breathes life
into that house.
and haunts it still.
you will not be able to explain
why they look in the mirror and
do not recognize this disobedient
husk
staring back at them with wet questioning eyes.
all you can do
all you can do — is look in their face
and see your own tired reflection
and in that moment you take their hand and say
I know you.
I remember you.
I recognize who you are.
and time slows
for just a moment.
-Julian* ©2017 All Rights Reserved
Julian Long is a Writer, Branding and Marketing Strategist, Voice Actor, Caretaker, and Commitment Coach with roots in NYC and Kentucky. His passion is helping be up to big things. Like all good Southern-raised church boys he loves his God his Mama, his dog and good fried chicken. Not necessarily in that order. More Julian: Twitter | Instagram | Facebook
Big Ass Black Hair
I love black hair. Big ass, wild ass, ign’ant, in-your-face, black mothafuckin’ hair.
And don’t get me wrong, I like small black hair too. I dig the short shit. I can certainly work with the dirty-tennis ball look. But yo, there’s just nothing quite like a big ass, black ass hairdo. Nothing.
I mean can straight blonde hair ball up into a black fist and shoot into the sky proud and mighty or glisten in the left over Blue Magic scraped from the container? Can straight blonde hair sparkle like a crown of jewels from the thousands of tightly woven locks that curl over and twinkle in the light like power to the people?
Hell naw. Only black hair can. Because big ass black hair is a mothafuckin’ movement.
It’s a middle finger to White supremacy. A symbolic “fuck you” to European imperialism. Big ass black hair is a big ass black sponge...soaking up the never-ending streams of White tears that rain down from the eyes of Apple Pie-Eyed Middle-America.
Black hair makes my damn balls tingle. I cum strong off of big ass black hair. I’m nasty. I know.
Big ass black hair isn’t just about fros and waves. It’s thick. Nappy too. It’s long. Shiiiiid, it’s nothing short of a superpower when the braided black ropes dangle like the tentacles of the Diaspora reaching into our posterity to remind us we are fucking royalty. Kings. Queens. Princes and princesses. We are regal to the fucking core.
Grow your gawd damn crown. Sit on your throne of blackassness.
Man, if this shit were a video game, the great big boss you’d have to beat at the very end would have big ass black hair. And to defeat them, you would have to shoot some sort of gun loaded with poisonous White Privilege and strands of cottage cheese.
Apple sauce cups or All-bland-anything. Whatever you chuck, the video game boss with a name like Angela Bassett or Nina Simone would not be defeated. Nor would James Baldwin or Malcolm X. Not Eva Ayllón. Not Nancy Morejón. Not Marcus Garvey. Not Jesse Williams. Not any one of you reading this emancipation declaration aka proclamation of independence remixed and reworded because…
WE
...find strength in our big ass black hair.
Crying Like A Tough Guy
Back in 4th grade, my teacher got so fed up with all the bullshit we had been doing all day in class that she went the fuck off on the entire classroom of students. She yelled. Screamed. Told us to shut the fuck up in about four different languages. She called us “Little Whiny Shits.” She even kicked over a desk and knocked a shit load of Elmer’s Glue and glitter all over the damn place. She was pissed as all hell.
And I cried.
I couldn’t even tell you what we did to her. All I know is that she spotted my ass from across the classroom with my head down, whimpering like a newborn poodle having its balls yanked with tweezers. That’s when she began talking all kinds of shit that could be basically summed up as her calling me a bitchass bitch and that I was too old to be crying just because someone raised their voice at me.
I cried anyway.
The other kids laughed at me. They even resorted to calling me names. They called me shit like: Cry baby. Whiny baby. Sissy. Pussy. Bitch. Bitchass punk ass motherfucka. Little bitchass punk ass motherfucka. Pretty much every soft ass name combination you could think of.
And to be totally honest, to this day I still wear the shit out of my emotions on my sleeve. But the point is if the teacher would have paid closer attention to the signs I had been bat-signaling her mean ass all year, she would have known that my sissy-pussy-bitchass-bitch crying was literally a cry for fucking help. But she failed me.
You see back then, my father was a verbally and physically abusive motherfucker that didn’t tolerate when we so much as breathed too loud. After all, we lived in his house and in his house, we basically had to ask for permission to fart and even more permission to let our farts stink. Essentially, my dad’s constant yelling and bitching and ass-kickings for every little thing I did made me so fucking socially fragile that on the day my punk ass teacher decided to chastise us, I released all the energy that I had been forced to hold in for nine years in the form of tears that puddled on my 4th grade desk into a mixture of snot and spit and Elmer’s Glue and other unidentified nine-year-old bodily fluids.
Long story short: I needed to cry.
Nowadays, I have two sons. And I love them. I hug them. I kiss them. I show affection to them. And doing so isn’t making them Gay (as if that mattered). It isn’t making them weak. It isn’t coddling them either. Nor does it make them weak ass, punk ass, bitch ass bitches.
My endearment is medicine for them. They need it. I am making them stronger and wiser and better prepared for this fucked up world we live in by helping them understand that they don’t always have to be threatened by another man.
The lack of this kind of endearment among men, especially Black men, is partially what I attribute to the astronomical violence happening in my home city of Chicago and, really, any hood across the country. Young black and brown men are beaten down mentally and physically at every turn. And the weight of the negative energy that seeps from such transgressions just sags. Sags like a diaper full of the world’s shit. Until eventually we turn violent among ourselves and put bullets into our own asses.
Sure, the murders are for reasons such as drugs and gangbanging. But really that kind of hate — the hate required to take another life — is fueled by an energy from somewhere else. A place where you pack all of your negative experiences that you don’t know how to process. So at the wrong place and time, those packages of hurt and guilt and frustration come tumbling out like knocked over trash that many don’t even know how to pick up.
We have a whole generation of young people that are simply numb. They don’t know how to deal with adversity. They don’t know how to be independent. They don’t even know how to make gawd damn syrup sandwiches anymore (WTF is the world coming to?). They only know how to take a lifetime of built up frustrations out on young men that look exactly like themselves because they have basically been farmed to have no feelings.
I could go into this long ass annoying rant about the biological, psychological, and sociological importance of crying and its proofs...but you MFers don’t give a damn about that. You want to finish reading this in time to catch Judge Mathis because you care about shit that you can relate to and don’t need a dictionary to decipher. You care about real situations. So friends, it doesn’t get any realer than what I’m about to tell you.
You see, a few short months, my nephew was shot to death on the Southside of Chicago. It was a terrible situation for my family and still is. And that morning when I learned that my 17-year-old nephew lost his life to inner city violence, it stung me to the mothafucking core. For an entire day, I roamed the house in a state of wonderfuck and finally, later that afternoon...I sat down on the couch...and let the tears flow because there was really nothing left for me to do.
Moments later, my young son comes walking into the room and I immediately changed face and half-assed wiped the salty tears from my lips and cheeks and out of the wells of my eyes. He, smart as shit, wasn’t fooled a second and said, “Dad, why are you crying?” I replied with a bassy, but still trembling voice, “I’m just a little sad. That’s all. I’m sorry.” Then I picked him up onto my lap, changing to a more cheerful tone and said, “Everything will be fine! Right?” Ignoring my question he replied, “Don’t be sorry, dad...tough guys cry, too.” Then he hopped off my lap and walked away singing his favorite cartoon’s theme song.
The moral of the story is simply this: Black men are fucking human beings. Black men are people with genuine emotions and a genuine need to express those emotions in the form of tears and sadness. Teach your young Black boys that crying is okay, so that when they become grown Black men, they don’t have packages of hurt and guilt and frustration festering inside them waiting to explode and hurt the next Black man. Crying is for tough guys, too.
