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Every spring and early summer my father had a war of the weeds. If you live in a house, you are probably yard and house proud. My dad was to his dying day..that meant no weeds could survive in this yard, or sidewalk, or in the cracks of concrete between the back gates and the garage. When he was still well enough to go outside everyday and do light housework, he had a torch to burn them..he had poison to spray them, but every spring them weeds came back and the war would start again.
The reason why I named my blog weeds in concrete is because, we black people are like weeds in concrete, no matter what you do to us we survive. I am sure this cliche has been used before and I am not trying to even be original but nothing else sums up the black experience in my opinion then this. We have been poisoned, burned, lynched, raped, plucked, and any other maniacal thing someone can think of, but we continue to thrive, and just like those weeds we pop back up, stronger then ever.
In a blog I wrote a few weeks ago people asked who my boyfriend was and although I mentioned him, I am still not ready to share that information for personal reasons but that is not what this post is about. This post is going to be about me being single and over 40 and how difficult it is at times anyway…(this might get kind of personal, and if I sound like i’m whining…I am also, this blog may go some of everywhere..but I still want feedback)
I grew up in the church, sanctified and holy to be exact, now my mom didn’t go as far as making me wear dresses all the time or not wearing makeup but it was pretty strict up in here. I remember being a girl and fantasizing about what my married life will be like, what sex will feel like when I meet the right one, and even what I will name my future children. The biggest disappointment of my life is, not having lost the fabled 150 pounds I have been trying to lose since I was 18, or not having the career I always dreamed of (either a historian or journalist for National Geographic) but still being single..ughh it is exhausting. Oh, and before you go on a rant on how you have to enjoy being with yourself, and the right one will come along someday because God has someone for everyone, etc. etc….please, i’m 43 not 23..heard it, believed it, said it, wrote vision boards for it..ain’t happened yet…
Sooooo with that being said, I am frustrated and depressed by the fact that I am probably going to be the crazy single lady with cats. When my mom dies, and I have to face the fact that she will…I will be alone. I do not have a lot of friends and it has been difficult for me through the years to find and maintain relationships (kids have it so easy) and in the meantime, time is slipping away. I do not have a large family, and when you think about it, do you really even like your single aunt with no kids..I know I didn’t, and here I am becoming her..she at least had a good job by now and some financial security. *sighs*
After my father died last year, this issue has become paramount in my mind. I might be letting it have to much space in my brain, but it is always there, nagging me…He wanted me to have children, and he thought the reasons why I might be single (which I have to agree with, although I would never tell him that) is because of my weight. Men I have found do not care for large women, and with exceptions like Mama June and Mon’ique, being a big girl and single is like being a green man in world where blue is the preferred color.
Who knows, maybe it is not to late..I have kept hope alive this long..why not a little longer
I work for a ride-share company. I will not say which one for obvious reasons but if you know me, you know which one it is. I started working with them over two years ago as a way to make extra income while working my regular job. Well, I was fired from my regular job did and I began driving full-time. Fortunately, and unfortunately, the pay is steady and at times better then my former job was. The unfortunate part comes from the the fact that I am considered an independent contractor, meaning, the company I work for has no responsibility to me or my services, basically I work at my own risk. The car I drive, I am responsible for, repairs, payments, etc.
I do not regret doing this, mostly because 2016 was a difficult year for me. My father died, I was diagnosed with high blood pressure and the dreaded disease it seems every African-American and Latino over the age of 40 is at risk of getting, Type-fuckin-2 fuckin Diabetes..ughh just saying it makes me mad at myself for wasting so much time not eating right, not losing weight, and not exercising..but that is not the point of this blog today…I digress. I had bedbugs (which I only wish upon the 45th president of the United States) and I spent much in 2016 in a general state of melancholia. Driving allowed me to continue to pay my bills while going through a complete and total mental break down at times. I have to say that I enjoy the freedom of the job more than anything, never having to answer to a boss, being out and free each day…it is marvelous. Eventually, I have to go back to being a productive member of society with a job and shit, but for right now this keeps me sane while I figure out the the next chapter of my life.
As my boyfriend suggested, my job puts me at the forefront of race relations in the third largest city in the United States, and it has been an eye opening experience. 2016 saw an upheavel of life as we know it. For many Americans of African descent we knew racism, xenophobia, sexism, etc., is real, but with the election of the 45th it has shown everyone else how real it is. Also, Chicago is going through some tough times, the state budget not being passed for the third year in a row, violence running rampant in the predominatly black and hispanic areas of the city has many of us feeling the change for the worse everyday. Jobs for average working folks are few and far between..and unless you are wealthy enough to live in Lincoln Park, South Loop, West Loop, to name a few of the better neighborhoods..education, services, and everything else is shitty. Driving has shown me how much my beloved city has changed, but where do I go from here? I love my city, this my home, and my love of the south side and how wonderful it is and how fantastic it can be keeps me here (also, rents and mortgages in this part of the city are livable, ain’t nobody got $1,500 a month for a studio apartment).
Because of all of this I want to write about my weekly experiences while working as a black woman. Some of my experiences include; Drunk white 20 somethings asking me do I listen to rap music and then being surprised when I say no…(no all of us do not like rap or hip-hop) Being asked constantly am I from Chicago? (where else in the fuck am I going to be from?…duh) Being asked how do I say my name..(it’s Sharon & Rhonda spelled creatively, I swear i’m naming my Daughter Mary and my son John) What part of the city do I live in? and then wanting to know what part of that part..(why in the hell do you need to know?) Being surprised I speak good English (yeah, we still getting that in 2017) How I feel about the election and then getting quiet when I tell them the honest truth…There is more, but come back for it. I have to grow my confidence as a writer and it has taken me forever to get this much done.
Thanks for reading, have a fantastic Day!
2016 was the worst for me. Not because Red faced Satan was elected president, it was the year that I realized I will not live forever.
My father died on January 7, 2016 of a heart attack. It was sudden, just the day before he called me wondering where water was coming from because he was hearing it running. My father and I had a difficult relationship, but after I turned 40 and he became sicker, I didn’t get as angry with him anymore. I grew up a little and he mellowed out a lot. The death of a parent is a slow aching pain..it gets better but not really. I dream about him, I sometimes hear his voice, I think about things he liked to eat, or times he told me funny things. My father swore, A LOT, if you knew him his language was colorful, sometimes it was funny, sometimes it would cut you to core, but he was my father. I look more like him then my mother, he shaped who I am, good and bad. There is not a day that goes by that I do not miss him.
I had bed bugs this year. Bed..fucking…bugs! I do not wish bedbugs on my worst enemy. The bedbugs aren’t as bad as the idea of them, in your bed, in your furniture, crawling on you and sucking your blood while you sleep and going back in their holes, never to know they are there until the next time. All I will say about the bugs is, I haven’t seen them in over 10 months and I hope to God they are all dead. The paranoia is worse then the fucking bugs.
I was fired in 2015 from a job I loved. It did more to destroy my self confidence than any nasty remark anyone has made about my weight or any dig my dad made about me. For once I thought I had a job that I was good at and liked, but as always, I fucked it up. Now, I do give some responsibility to my boss, she was slicker then hair grease and I witnessed her do what she did to me to three other coworkers, two of which I begged her not to fire. But, to know that she would do the same thing to me was devastating. So, I picked up the pieces of my life, started driving uber full time and moved on. In the meantime, I applied and interviewed for three jobs I really wanted. Two of those jobs I almost got, of course I didn’t get them…because of that I am still hustling uber, the freedom has been phenomenal, but that is another blog post.
Donald Trump was elected President of the United States on my 43rd birthday. I think he will be the worst president ever and he will usher in the apocalypse. That’s all the energy I am giving to him today.
I was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes and High Blood Pressure. I have been heavy much of my life, and I knew the day was coming, i just wish it wasn’t at 42. Diabetes runs in my family and my love of all things sweet and carbs, it was just a matter of time. I knew I was sick but refused to acknowledge it for more then a year. I had the worst yeast infection ever and I had to pee all the time…all the FUCKING time. Finally in May, I put my big girl panties on and went to the doctor. The news wasn’t good but I dealt with it..It is still difficult and I am not having the easiest time with losing weight, watching carbs, exercising, and keeping my blood sugar down…but I try.
My only wish for 2017 is that I make it through, keep working, finish graduate school, and find my place in the world. Now, if I win the lottery, that will be awesome, but I am not holding my breath.
About two weeks ago my mom told me that the Rev. Al Sharpton was going to march on Washington to protest the inauguration of the president elect. I was excited and decided to sign up and go, why not? I think this election is the ushering in of the anti-Christ, but I digress, I am marching in D.C. on January 21. My mother has also decided to go and she is all excited about it…as my mother always does she tells EVERYBODY..(drives me to distraction, but she is my mother, I keep quiet) An evangelist friend of hers has challenged her and asked her an important question, why? what will marching accomplish?
With all this being said, I understand if she doesn’t go, but I am, and here is why. I thought long and hard about why would I do this? what am I doing as a black woman marching with all these bleeding heart liberal white chicks, who I am sure will start with that I don’t see color crap…This election has shown me what I have always known but refused to acknowledge, that hate is real. This entire year I have watched the debates, read the news articles on line, and stayed informed. So much ugliness has come out of this election and that hate has elected the most unqualified, undignified, idiot as the leader of the free world and it boggles the mind. This trip I will learn new ways to network and learn how to make sure that I keep that person accountable. I don’t know where to start, how do I become an activist? how do I better help my community and make sure we don’t regress back to 1950? This is why I am going…that and I have to let the world know, this guy is a dick..
I wore makeup yesterday, a little foundation, eye shadow, eyeliner, and lip gloss. Nothing spectacular, I didn’t go nuts, but it is a big deal to me. I am sure you wondering why, people wea…
I wore makeup yesterday, a little foundation, eye shadow, eyeliner, and lip gloss. Nothing spectacular, I didn’t go nuts, but it is a big deal to me. I am sure you wondering why, people wear make up all the time, for me it goes deeper.
I have never felt pretty, in any sense of the word. My beauty has always been wrapped up in how the world sees me. For as long as I can remember I wanted people to see past my rolls, my fat stomach and thick legs and see my real beauty. I have asked to much of people and I have let the outside world determine my self worth..that is a dangerous thing. When I was a girl, maybe 11 or 12, I wanted to be pretty like the other girls in my class. Now I had some things that were praised by black folks as far as beauty goes, I had long hair (not quite long enough to me) smooth light skin, and large brown eyes. I would stare in the mirror and try to figure out if I was pretty, and I would ask my mother did she think I was, her only reply would be..”you look like you”.
But what did “me” look like? Was that a good thing? Because I was bullied and laughed at constantly about my weight I never felt it, and when people told me I was, I never believed them. Some how around 12 or 13 my beauty became synonymous with how small I was, and I could never be small enough. I was a latch-key kid so when I got home from school I ate and ate and ate, and ate some more. I didn’t have money then so eating fast food was out of the question, but sweets were around and I ate them. By the time I graduated from high school I was a big girl, no bigger then some of the other young women around me, but the seeds of hate and self doubt were planted and there was no convincing me otherwise that I was anything other then a big, fat ugly thing.
I masked my self hate with nice clothes, oh I was, and still am, a snazzy dresser. My hair stayed done, chemically straightened and fried to perfection. My speech was as white as I could make it, and I read books to appear smart..all the time. Still, I wasn’t pretty..no boys came calling for me..oh there were one or two but in all honesty, they were not worth my time..(I may have felt ugly, but I am a BAP after all and just any negro will not do) There was one boy in 10th grade, Cornelius..he wanted to date me, and another big girl named Natasha, and another one named Betty. I never considered him my boyfriend, we were just “Talking” he kissed me once, that was nice, real nice. I didn’t realize his game until the 10th grade dance and he was with me and the two other girls. Soooooo that didn’t work out, I heard he got Betty pregnant..Then my senior year there was another boy who liked me, but he wouldn’t take me to prom..so screw that. That’s it…that is my love life..and in the meantime I am getting fatter and fatter, uglier and uglier by the day.
After college, I had ballooned to my heaviest and I am still floating around that size now, but 20 years later, 4 jobs, and turning 43..I have come to accept myself. Now, don’t get it twisted..I still feel fat, ugly, gross, disgusting, and hairy, but I try. Right outfit (Thank you so much plus size fashion bloggers!)and hair in a perfect twist-out, you cannot tell me nothing.
Yesterday, that is how I felt…Beautiful
I have things to say and don’t have a proper platform to say them. I live a singular life, I am single, I have no children, I am in a relationship but quite honestly it isn’t going to go anywhere (that is for another blog). Maybe this will help, maybe nobody will read this and I can say what I want, so here goes.
I am not the best writer in the world, my grammar is shit and the older I get the more of a potty mouth I have, with that being said…I am going to write whatever the fuck I want and I hope you forgive me if you are reading this.
Recently I turned 43, unfortunately it was on the same day that America decided that it would rather be racist, xenophobic, misogynist, you know, like it has always been. For a while I thought we had evolved in better people, that racism would truly die..I was so wrong. It has broken my heart. There is no other way to say it. I am not naive enough to believe that racism does not exist but it has smacked me in the face so hard, my head is still spinning. Is this who we really are? I guess so..all I can do is hope and pray that young people will be fired up, will continue to fight and keep protesting…squeaky wheels gets the oil..so keep squeaking.