Free

Before writing this blog, I was asked, “What is the one thing you want the most?”

I replied that I wanna be free…completely free. So, here it is:

On top of him, after kissing his forehead, he asked me one of the most plaguing hypothetical questions: “If you were pregnant. What would you do?” Under a quizzical expression, I wondered if he could tell how secretly pissed I was at his inquiry. Of course I would keep the baby, and the fact that he was not eager to embrace the possibility of us parenting a child together upset me.

I have known this man for a month. Two weeks after meeting, we slept together. After three weeks, he became my boyfriend. Now at six weeks I haven’t thought twice about having unprotected sex with him, nor having his child. I had actually smirked at the image of our baby having his soup cooler lips and my dark skin.

And now, sitting on top of him, the thought of him challenging the recklessness of our relationship with some sense of reality upset me. I left his apartment still feeling pissed. By the time we got to his car I had scrolled through my mental Rolodex to figure out whom I could call and have validate my anger. I rushed our goodbyes, pressing the “dial number” button before I could get my feet out the car.

I’m glad I didn’t get what I wanted. Forgetting the strength of her sensibility, I called up my best friend. When asked if I was being ridiculous, she simply said, “Yes.” Upon hearing her answer, I rushed her off the phone, shunning the logic she had presented so bluntly. It took two more hour-long conversations to shove me into the reality of the situation.

That reality is: I do not want to get pregnant. I don’t want the responsibility of having a child, and I don’t want to force a child on someone who does not wish to have one.

So what the hell was the problem?

The problem was with me. The hurt that I felt was not from wishing to conceive. Instead it arose from the rejection I felt from him. The fact that he did not want to have a child with me seemed to speak to the flaws that I possess, a testament that I was fine for now, but would not suffice long-term. Instead of understanding his reaction as concern for both his and my future, I wrote it, and him, off as selfish.

In actuality, I am selfish as hell. And I crave validation. I go after it with as much logic and decisiveness as a fiend. I accept it from any man that offers me companionship. I fear being alone so I create situations where I can convince myself that any emotion (anger, annoyance, infatuation, happiness, guilt) between us is an expression of love. If the reality of the relationship will not allow that fantasy to take place, I quickly flee from it. However, I wholeheartedly embrace a relationship that harbors the misuse of love, and becomes a temporary haven for me to relieve my insecurities onto someone else.

So the burden of validation is shared among the two of us. He, like clockwork, answers, “yes” when I ask, “Baby, do you like me?” while I remind him of his good nature and his ability to be loved. Our system worked well until it was interrupted by an inevitable realism: the possibility of pregnancy. However, my mind twisted the thought of being pregnant into an opportunity for me to receive the ultimate validation.

For me, as an emotionally damaged woman, the thought of a man wanting me to mother his child would solidify my personhood. It would once and for all validate me as a woman, showing me that even with all my insecurities and flaws, someone thinks that I am capable of being loved, and in turn fit to organically love someone else. But this task of abating insecurities, and confirming my womanhood should not be my boyfriend’s responsibility. It was that of my father.

My father was indeed a beautiful man. One of those rare people who freely shared themselves with others, giving love away in the same manner folks gave out rides. He loved hard and so he was loved in the same way. Especially by me. Our relationship was true love. One so ancient, my spirit feels as though he has loved me many lifetimes over. When told that he would die, my little body couldn’t comprehend the death of his spirit in me, nor mine in him. But lack of understanding didn’t stop him from dying, and one common February morning, he finally passed. I had just turned seven. And in my seven years, I had been teased, ridiculed, and made fun of; but nothing killed my spirit like the day I faced the reality of my father’s death. I think I buried too much of myself with him the day of his funeral. It wouldn’t matter though. Whatever wasn’t already dead in me would be massacred with the arrival of my mother’s new husband.

A year or two had gone by since my father’s death, and already, my mother was married. After announcing her engagement to my sister and me, I ran upstairs and cried. As a child something in me felt the weight of the situation. It was more than me being selfish…his spirit just wasn’t a right fit for the healing that was taking place within the family. I knew I wasn’t loved by this man, and therefore knew that genuine love did not exist between him and my mother. His lovelessness for my siblings, my mother, and me would be proved over and over again throughout the course of their marriage.

It was hard for me to go from experiencing a pure and nourishing fatherly love to a “father” figure that didn’t love me, and on top of that, invalidated me during the most pivotal times of my self-development. As the years passed I became more insecure, developed feelings of worthlessness, and doubted my ability to be loved by a man. My stepfather went through phases of talking to me, and then not speaking to me at all. That created anxiety for me as it suggested that I had done something that made me undeserving of even the most common of courtesies. Whenever I made a mistake like leaving something on, or unwashed, he would (instead of asking me to correct the situation right then) wait for my mother to get home, complain to her about it, and then tell her to tell me to fix the problem. Again, another blow to my self-esteem…I had not even been worth talking to directly. Late at night I would hear him talking to my mother about me and my sisters like dogs, telling her the problems he saw in us, and how she was only helping them worsen. These and other acts he committed, and my mother’s outward demeanor about the situation further impressed feelings of worthlessness onto my sisters and me. By the tenth year of their marriage, I became just like the person he married. My mother.

Like her, I possessed a spirit of detachment; I hide my sensitivity under brute words and a harsh demeanor. I would suppress anything that challenged the perfect image I took years to develop. This is because I have convinced myself, with the help of her husband, that my imperfections were sin. I empathize with everyone, and so to keep people I love from opening up to me, I brush them off before I have to endure their pain as well as my own. I love hard, and so I can’t tell people the extent of my love for them. As a result, I have prevented myself from fully seeing how much I was loved. The only opening of attachment I had was for the men who romantically entered my life. I would endlessly pour myself into them, in hopes of receiving some sort of validation. This was the formula applied in my first serious relationship, and now four years later, I still put up with his abuse in exchange for scraps of compliments and conditioned love.

I am being honest with myself and with that honesty I have to examine the process that has created in me something so desperate that I would, for the sake of validation, pass a generational curse of guilt, invalidation, unfulfillment, and worthlessness onto my child.

But, as I write, I am convinced of the change I am capable of. I will not create a child addict addicted to his mother’s drug. I mourn the lost time I have wasted with myself, feeling dissatisfied with who I am and the choices I have made. Through time I will begin to recognize that although I am imperfect, I am still a good person. I seek change, guidance, honesty, and God. I am creation, and cannot ignore that in me which desires to create. In the past I have chosen to create and re-create feelings of guilt, selfishness, and ingenuity. Now I seek to re-create God’s image of me.

My boyfriend is hidden from these truths. He does not understand the weight of his words nor does he know the impact they had in forcing me to cope with my past and present selfs. Eventually he, and others will have to know my reality. For my honesty is the only thing that can continue to push me toward self-critique, self-reflection and change. It is my validation.

Peace Love,

Allie

the ways of everyday people.

Someone told me that to watch the ways of everyday people is to hate everyday people. I don't hate people, but I do go to great lengths to try to make sense of the things people do, the situations that both puzzle and trouble me...

*I've chosen not to use any defining factors like names...these aren't black people, white people, rich people or poor people...these are everyday people.

(The One):
Man, attractive and in his early twenties, has grown tired of one night stands. He is disgusted with his repertoire, consisting mostly of women he considers smuts, and wouldn't dare take home to momma. Man desires intimacy, warmth, stability, and someone to have his dinner ready after a long day's work. Man meets Woman. She is reasonably attractive, but most importantly, she is eager. Woman has spent years molding herself into her idea of a man's ideal woman. Now, it seems that Man is recognizing her efforts.

Actually, it is quite the contrary. Man recognizes nothing in Woman but vulnerability. Woman suits Man's needs because he only seeks to exploit her, and her vulnerability leaves her ripe for using. Man thinks nothing of what he can do for her; he only dreams of what she can do for him.

Man recognizes immediately that in some ways Woman will not satisfy him. Her conversation will do, but it doesn't hit Man in his soul. Her company is comforting, but it isn't entertaining...for him, it isn't enjoyable. The sight of Woman does not make Man's heart pump; it only makes him wonder what's for dinner.

"Hmmmm," Man thinks to himself, "I won't love this woman for a lifetime, but for now, she will suffice."

Man never lets on that his future plans don't include Woman. "Things are moving along fine, why rock the boat?" he asks himself. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there." Meanwhile, Woman is thrilled, content with the belief that she has wooed a wonderful man, who is enamored with her and (as far as she can tell) will never let her go.

Man and Woman co exist happily for years. All of Woman's friends are jealous; all of Man' s friends predict doom....none can figure out why he's been with Woman for years and still says things like, "When I find The One..."

Woman is now itching to marry. Finally, she begins hinting at Man to pop the question, at which time Man becomes aware of a gliche in his plans for the first time: While Man has enjoyed comfort with Woman for years, Woman's comfort won't come until a wedding ring is placed on her finger. And, alas, Man NEVER intended on giving her that. Why would he? She isn't The One.

Woman leaves the situation heartbroken and angry, vowing to never play the fool again. Man has not changed his mind about Woman; he still knows she isn't "it".

But he calls her several times a week, wondering if she'll spend the evening with him, and maybe even prepare some dinner....at least until he finds The One.

(Dark Child):
Woman and Man have been together, on and off, for several years and have one small child together. Woman never wanted a man like she wanted Man. She had a feeling that he was out of her league, but that's why she liked him. He was deep, sensual, and could converse with anyone on any topic. Woman's thoughts never went much deeper than keeping her man, and that was deep enough for Man. She knew a good man when she saw him.

Now Man was good, but he wasn't always good to Woman. His long legs strolled through their front door in the wee hours of many mornings. Woman never asked any questions.

But in her mind, she sought revenge, and one weekend while she and Man were on the outs, she got it.

Nine months later, Man and Woman's second child is born. Man is joyous, Woman is nervous, and the nurses in the delivery room are all smirking. Man and Woman are both of the light skinned persuasion. New baby is dark, dark, dark.

Still, Man is thrilled. After all, wasn't his grandmother dark skinned? Man told Woman it must have skipped a generation....it happens, right?

Woman knew Man was all wrong. In her heart and in her mind and even on her ovulation chart, was the truth. But as long as Man didn't worry, neither would she.

Time passes and the truth should be haunting Woman, but it isn't. It is, however, haunting Man, whose faith in Woman seems to be folding under the neighbor's whispers:

"Momma's baby, Daddy's maybe!"

The truth came to Man through one of Woman's scorned friends. Woman had been blowing her off lately, and she was just pissed enough to tell all. She felt sorry for Man, anyway.

The truth stole all of Man's smiles for months. Man had loved that dark child; had squeezed its dark cheeks, kissed its dark hands. Man had opened an account just for the baby...for college and stuff.

But the truth did not steal Man's heart. He still loved the child; squeezed its cheeks, kissed its hands. But he could never look at Woman the same. And after a time, he ran from Woman, because no matter how he tried, he couldn't keep his disgust from rising up his throat and spilling onto the floor.

But when their first child would go to visit Man, the dark child would go, too, and Man would treat him as his own.

Woman should have been ashamed, or appreciative, or both. Instead she was angry and resentful.

Since Man signed the birth certificate, Woman asked Man for child support. And on weekends when she felt alone and overwhelmed, she called Man's mother on the telephone, screaming about how Man had never done anything for his children.

(Man to Man):
Man and Friend had been down since middle school. Both athletes, they ran in the same circles, shared the same girls, and even shared the same tall, slim build. They never disagreed. They had never gotten into an argument, not once.

Man was not completely oblivious to his shortcomings. He just needed a little help identifying them, and fixing them. He'd ask Friend if there was any room for improvement, man to man. Friend would assure Man that he was fine just the way he was.

But Friend knew that Man wasn't fine just the way he was. Man was an egotistical, sometimes irate, inconsiderate slob...and sometimes he smacked when he chewed. Worst of all was the way Man treated Girlfriend, who had been with Man since before Man and Friend met in middle school.

Girlfriend would call Friend, sometimes, asking Friend to talk some sense into Man. Friend understood each of Girlfriend's complaints, and really sympathized with her. Friend knew for sure that Man loved Girlfriend, but couldn't offer her any solace or advice--she was completely justified in her irritation with Man. He was all that she complained that he was.

Friend was sure that if Man didn't straighten up, he would lose Girlfriend forever.

Sometimes, Man would ask Friend what he thought about specific complaints that Girlfriend made:

"Hey, Friend, Girlfriend says I have an ego problem...what's she talkin about?"

Friend would respond, "Awwww, Man...you know women. If its not one thing its another..."

Something in Friend told him that he wasn't handling things properly. Something told him that as Man's closest friend, it was his obligation to be honest with him. But, then again, he couldn't tell another man how to live his life, or how to treat his woman.

Girlfriend left Man for good in the middle of a hot, muggy, summer night. It took Friend a few seconds to realize that it was tears, not sweat, that glistened on Man's face when he showed up at Friend's front door that same night.

Once inside, Man cried freely, and told Friend all of the emotional things that men usually keep to themselves. Man had no idea what he would do without Girlfriend. She was his light; without her Man couldn't see. Man racked his brain for answers. What had made Girlfriend so fed up? If Man could just figure out what he was doing wrong, he'd fix it. Hell, he'd do anything to get Girlfriend back. He turned to Friend, his ace since middle school, and begged for help in the form of answers:

"Friend, What's wrong with me? What do I need to do to get her back?"

Friend shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know, Man...I don't know." He had been moved by Man's honesty, but what else could he tell him?

Weeks later Girlfriend called Friend. She had finally left Man and she wanted Friend's take on things. Friend was happy to hear from Girlfriend, but felt sad for Man once he realized how firm she was in her decision.

"Well," Friend said to her, "he should've changed his ways before it was too late."

"Yea," Girlfriend thought to herself, "Because if he had realized the error of his ways and come after me that night, I woulda stayed."

allaisia hanan
xoxo

DEATH NOTE

One of the most emotional things I’ve ever had to do was to let him die. This is not a love story. I guess it used to be…maybe years ago, but now after almost four years of abuse, its more like getting your mind beautifully high on illusions while letting your body get fucked, constantly raped by reality.

Shit…fuck getting high, I’ve put up with nights upon nights of “You’re such a fucking dumbass…” and “I don’t give a shit about you…” and “You just like the rest of them fuckin females….” for a hint of something like “I Love You” coming from his lips. Honestly, a text message with some choice words would make me forget about the time he cussed me out, threw me in his car, and drove off with me sitting barefoot and half naked on church steps next to a cemetery. He’d just remind me that that was the night he told me he cared about me while I pleased him with nervous, yet passionate lovemaking.

I love him. Or yet, I love the thing in him that validates me. My beauty, my intelligence, he reassures my insides that I am indeed supposed to be here. That maybe it is possible for me to be here and to be loved by a man. I see what happens to those without them, I see the pain they go through, the struggles they openly endure. But women with men know how to hide their pain, they understand how to neatly bundle it up and gift wrap it under four bedroom houses and pretty pink baby girl dresses. They may feel incomplete, unwanted, ugly, unloved, unappreciated, and scared, but they are masters of delusion. Their sacrifice is not in vain because it is for “us.” I love the idea of carrying my load of loneliness, hurt, and self-doubt for the sake of “us” instead of unpacking each and healing for my own sake. Why would I allow old unsettled memories to cause me pain, when I can blame twenty years of hurt feelings on being called a bitch?

My stepfather planted seeds of worthlessness in me that I wanted this ex-lover to grow. I asked him to garden insecurities with questions like, “Do you care about me?” It went beyond begging when I would call to ask, “Do you love me?” I knew these questions stripped away my humanity in his eyes. I was no longer a women he used to love; instead, I became another female he could stuff into his overdeveloped manhood. That is how we began validating each other.

Pitiful love words loosely filled his spiritual incompetence with feelings of being needed. But for me, his cruel words validated my hurt. It allowed me to continue the experiential logic I had crafted into a simple equation: men=hurt. Dad died. Stepfather blames his wife’s children for everything. Telling her that her daughters spread their legs to strangers during the night and the younger ones are useless because they don’t turn off lights or put up dishes. And him, the ex-lover, would douse me with cruel words. It was the only thing that wouldn’t change about his nature, the one thing that I could expect from him. I could count on him to hurt my feelings and so, after a certain point, I needed it. It was his way of sharing something with me that could both confirm my worthlessness and legitimize our relationship. Because of course, “He only says such things because he cares.”

After phone conversations I always cried. Crying from his words was the only time I allowed myself to pay attention to my own hurt feelings, scratching surfaces of pains I wouldn’t dare unearth myself. I am unable to tear away at recollections of personal suffering. His harshness rips away bandages that cover such wounds, helping me to remember that they are still there. So anytime I feel a sense of transcendence, or some slight sense of worth, he helps me to excuse it as a mistake, or a passing wind of luck.

Who would I be to accept myself as imperfect, and still be content? Surely it would be better to let one man tear me down based on who he perceives me to be, rather than to let the world experience my me as vulnerable, imperfect, and maybe incomplete. This will be the hardest thing I will ever have to do. To kill every ounce of perceived perfection that I have managed to cover over myself. To kill every part of me that wants pity, validation, and comfortablity. I was not made to be perfect nor was I made to be worthless. I was conversed into existence to shape God as Creation within me. And that is what I plan to do.

This is somewhat of a eulogy. May God have mercy on me for prolonging such mourning.

Blessings Love,

Allie

rebirth 9.19.08

My daughter was born on September 19th, 2008. It was, by far, the most miraculous day of my life. I've rattled off the details of Amali's birth so many times that I can do it in my sleep. But I never mention the second event that took place along with her birth---my own rebirth.

It is such a beautiful thing to come together with someone and create something new. I can create a damn good portrait by myself, but to have another artist come and bless my portrait with his talented hands is just heavenly. I understand now, more than ever, why childbirth was meant to be shared between husband and wife, and experienced in an atmosphere of true love.

My daughter deserves to thrive, without having her spirit squelched by drama that manifested itself before she even took her first breath. Its an unfair mark against her before she even gets off the bench and into the game. She shouldn't have to be shifted from home to home on weekends like a grocery bag with unwanted belongings in it. She shouldn't have to get her support check in the mail. She shouldn't have to call her daddy on the phone to tell him "good night". Her father and I should be the ones to show her what true love is like, so that when she's grown, she won't have to use trial and error to find out. We were supposed to give her a solid foundation to stand on. It was our job to give her a running start.

I will tell her that I don't know for sure what went so wrong. I will tell her that I adored her father. I will tell her that he never put his hands on me and that he always knew how to put a smile on my face. I'll tell her that I knew from the moment I saw him that I would give him a child. I'll tell her that he was my kryptonite.

My kryptonite; not because the sight of him makes my knees quiver...nothing so silly as that. He was my kryptonite because he was the first and only man who convinced me to trust his judgment over my own. I would have followed him into a mud hut if that's what he believed we should call home. He was who I trusted after nineteen years of not trusting.

I was born into a situation that contradicted my ability to trust men. My father's absence was a rainy cloud that hung over my head...reminding me that I wasn't worth shit. Not worth a phone call, not worth a letter, not worth a card on my birthday. Everything he did to my mother filtered down to me. She was my model and if she, who worked soo hard, didn't deserve his help and support, then surely I was undeserving of anything worth having. My life has not been free of pain, but there was no pain like the hard lessons he taught me through his example. I learned:

1.) Men will leave you.
2.)They will come back, and you ought to be so grateful to see them that you must welcome them as if they never left.
3.) Men will leave, again.
4.) Your tears don't matter.
5.) If it doesn't hurt, it isn't love.
6.) Pain is a natural thing that all women must bear.

My biggest fear in life has always been that I won't make conscious decisions in order to shield my own daughter from the pain I endured as the daughter of a man and a woman who didn't love each other properly.

When I found out that I was having a girl I was so hurt...I thought, "what a load she'll carry...to be black, to be woman, to be born to parents who may or may not be together..."

I trusted her father to prove that all men don't have pockets full of hurt, ready to hurl them full force at unsuspecting women. It wouldn't have been his job to prove this to me, except that he told me the kind of man he would be. He gave me his word.

I took a gamble on my future...knowing the possibility of my biggest fear becoming manifest. Even when she was just a thought in my mind, my daughter was the most precious jewel in the world to me. I loved her so much when she was just an idea, and I chose HIM to share her with me. I trusted him to be there. I trusted him to cover us with his strength, steadfastness, and intelligence, so that any pain my daughter and I inevitably felt would never be caused by him.

He didn't understand that, just as my mother's pain is also mine, my pain will be Amali's. He didn't understand that there's no separating her from our situation. She's a victim of each of our decisions as parents...and a victim of each of our imperfections as people.

I will tell her that her father is a good man. I will tell her that he tries to be his best. But I know I'll also have to explain the pain. I'll have to tell her that her father wasn't the man that he should have been...that I was fragile during my pregnancy, and he didn't handle me with care...and that he never even said he was sorry. I'll have to admit to her what I've never even admitted to him: that the realization that we might not be together sent my soul shooting out of my body to land on the ground and die.

It wasn't just lost love...I've dealt with that before...it was my precious jewel's future at stake. Us walking away from each other was like accepting that for our daughter, there would have to be pain.

I didn't want my daughter to learn the same lessons I did; I didn't want her to ever even have to open that book...

In the hospital, after she was born, he had his chance. I hadn't been free of wrong, but surely birthing his child was enough? Surely the fact that I welcomed him with hugs and smiles was enough? Surely sharing the most beautiful baby in the world with him was enough to make him think about the magnitude of what he had done? Or hadn't done? In that moment, in the beauty of her birth, I was willing to forget it all, grab him by the hand, and conquer the world with our baby on my back. Had he apologized, I could have forgiven right then and there and never looked back. But he didn't say anything. I waited patiently...and it didn't come. Not in the days we spent in the hospital. Not after we left. And months later, it hasn't come.

And maybe that is for the best.

I won't wait anymore. I am not the woman I used to be. Through my example, I am showing my daughter what is and isnt acceptable from men. I want to teach her a lesson of my own:

1) Men who do not honor their words, and who do not make right their wrongs, do not deserve your friendship, your respect, and your unconditional love.

I will tell her that her father is beautiful...that once his outer layers are peeled away, there's a strong revolutionary at his core, meant to do great things in this lifetime and in the next. I will tell her that I will always have smiles for him...that when he matures, I'm confident he'll know how to give to a woman all that he never gave me.

I want her to know that I still believe in him. And I want her to know that despite ourselves, he and I love each other, and we love her...very much.

But I will not allow the guilt of not creating the perfect picture for my daughter to keep me lost in a dream...a slave to a mentality that convinces me that its my job to secure the love I never witnessed between my mother and father, at the expense of my dignity and self-worth. I deserve flowers from him. I deserve to be treated like gold.

These days, though, I know that I can't force anyone to give me what I believe I deserve. I know that I don't make the rules, and now, I don't want to call the shots.

Since my rebirth, I don't mourn my father's absence. I know who my real Father is. My conversations with Him and prayers to Him are enough.

xoxo
allaisia hanan