You Broke Up with Us Because She’s White.

Christopher Rivas would never date me.

Before I read “I Broke Up With Her Because She’s White“, I did a quick Google image search to brace myself for what I was about to read. Being a visibly Black Latina who does not read as “exotic”, I know what to look for. One glance at his latte complexion, topped with a mop of loose curls and “but you’re not BLACK, Black” features and I knew I could recite the post before I read it. After all, there’s a special sort of angst reserved for those who fall just a hair short of passing, a fist-length from accessing that privilege.

Rivas, in a series of half-finished thoughts and incomplete tangents, stumbles through the all-too familiar Caribbean Latinx struggle of finding a place in a country that only has one bucket in the “Hispanic” category and refuses to understand Latinx isn’t a race. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t trying to work all that out while figuring where his apparent love for white women fit in.

And this is where you lose me Chico.

Somewhere between the single Black Woman he brought home in high school and the white girlfriend he pines over a year later (perhaps because he hasn’t found a woman he regards as highly in the sea of colored faces he has dated since?), Rivas reflects on the “better the race” conditioning he has received from his family. From the father who primped to attract a whiter woman to the aunt furious at the thought of him slumming it with The Blacks, Christopher recites a history chock-full of anti-Blackness, colorism and eugenics-lite…only to conclude his “woke” friends are the problem.

In his quest to find identity he did what Caribbean Latinxs often do, and turned to the map drawn for us by the history of Blackness in America. James Baldwin. Ta-Nehisi Coates. Activism and the “Black Body”. And like many, he found himself lost between two cultures as he never learned how to apply his latinidad to his Blackness.

This isn’t uncommon. Figuring out where you fit in American activism when you are of Latinx decent is a speed bump we have all overcome. It is even referenced heavily in the much-mourned Netflix series, “One Day at A Time” (RIP). As a woman finding my place has a bit more urgency as the government simultaneously creates legislation to restrict my movements as a woman both Black and Latinx, aware of my privilege as able-bodied, cisgender and heterosexual.  But as a man, who is Not Quite Black™ and not the right kind of Latinx, his urgency lands at…whom he can date without losing his “woke” badge.

He is a man who still needs outside validation to confirm his values because he isn’t sure he believes them yet. What is even a “hashtag woke thing”? What is he trying to prove, and to whom? Why do the stares of “Black and Brown people” affect him exactly as much as the blatant racism and microaggressions he suffered at the hands of the families of the white women he dated? Is it perhaps because he knows he will never have the privilege among white people that he has as a self-identified Brown man amongst Blacks like me?

The answers he seeks may well be buried in a tangent he never fully explored in his post.

“’You trying to be white now?’

“What does that mean — trying to be white? We’ve all heard it (maybe not all of us). I’ve said it. If we think about it, it’s really just a comment on power: ‘Chico, you trying to have power now?’

“Yes, yes I am.’”

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Mosaic: The Birthday Post

“Imagine that one day you accidentally knock a treasured vase off its perch. It smashes into tiny pieces. What do you do? Do you try to put the vase back together as it was? Do you collect the pieces and drop them in the rubbish, as the vase is a total loss? Or do you pick up the beautiful colored pieces and use them to make something new – such as a colorful mosaic?”

~Stephen Joeseph

For the last few years, I’ve celebrated the day of my birthday sans company.

Of all the plans and assumed trajectories for my life that I’ve given up on or allowed to die, this leftover idea has been the most peculiar. Puzzling because at no point has this scenario ever been close to a reality, so I do not know why it still occasionally tugs at my heart.

A significant other, so enraptured by my existence that the day of my birth, to them, should be an event.

Full-disclosure: I have not had a get together orchestrated by another living human since I was five years old. I have never been surprised. I tend to gravitate towards the type of men that consider no holiday worth getting worked up over, including their own birthdays. More years than I’d care to mention birthdays were celebrated with a mutual cancelling out of the responsibilities associated with being a significant other whose mate had a born day. To make things sound even more ridiculous, I’m not a giant fan of parties.

And yet still.

It is not to say I have not had some rollicking birthday celebrations; a favorite being a four-day romp that included a spa day, a beach day, a dinner and two brunch parties. Events all orchestrated by me; which often left me breathless and happy, but tired in a way you should not be on a set of days dedicated to you.

So at some point I decided doing whatever I wanted instead trumped being an event planner and host, and simply turned off my phone and walked outside on my birthday. Usually whatever I wanted involved food, so this approach evolved to an annual food adventure where I’d throw a dart at a tasting menu, hand them my card, tell them it was my birthday and worry about the bill later. If you consider my IG account you’d understand how quickly this became my most treasured way to celebrate anything.

And yet. Still.

While making my way in life to the eventual point where this blog was born I’ve formed an e-circle of writing friends of whom I affectionately refer to as “Ladies, Interrupted”; having each experienced an event that abruptly, devastatingly, killed off the trajectory of life we imagined and left us to make sense of the life we were now given. I’ve had many a conversation on the subject of rebirth with Rae of Untitled, 1975 (an aptly named blog born of the ashes of another), where we share a joint interest in the concept of kintsugi, which she beautifully details in “The Art of Mending Broken Things”.  While inspiring I’ve found the concept never truly spoke to me. There are aspects of my life, once broken, that are impossible to be remade whole in the image of what was, gold fillings or not.

Which is how I came across the mosaic. Specifically, this piece from Mari Andrew (yes, we do indeed have the same name).

While there is beauty in the cracks some dreams are just shattered beyond repair. And there is something wonderfully healing in simply allowing it to remain forever broken and creating a completely new life out of it, something even lovelier than you had imagined the first time. This is the space I occupy. A mosaic allows you to simultaneously mourn that forever broken and celebrate the new life that came together from the bits.

Which brings us back to my birthday celebration. An elaborate event orchestrated by a loved one, platonic or otherwise, is something that is just not a realistic possibility in this lifetime (yes, I still have years to live. No, I have no interest in doing that to myself). I can’t even tell you why I wanted it in the first place, so I definitely cannot explain why this really insignificant thing in the grand scale of all that has got-damned happened and not happened in my life still occasionally stings. But allowing myself to acknowledge it, mourn, and also really fucking enjoy (and quite likely prefer) the traditions I have created instead just..it just brings me peace.

Now I have ranted about the need to make your own traditions that are not “consolation prize” versions of the traditions you wanted to make before, but never really delved into the “why”. Because I love to make series (I should really call them novellas because of the way I abandon them after three seasons), the discussions surrounding will be labelled “mosaic”. Let’s make some beauty of the bits, shall we?

What about you? What beautiful new life emerged from something you let completely fall apart or die?

How to Be Single: Get your own Sh*t

***This entire post is a petty party, so if this is not your thing please scroll on by to the next post for your inspirational message fix.***

While I am not a big jewelry person I do love the occasional ring. Unfortunately, all of the rings I own are either linked to a relationship or look too relationship-y for me to wear without getting the usual run of intrusive questions. So to treat myself after a particularly rough semester I searched for a good right-hand ring.

This is one of the first things I stumbled upon.

 

*rubs temples*

While I’ve written of the pressures to always look “happily single” before, this particular piece of un-married-un-parent life irks me.

I just want my own shit.

I’m tired of being marketed to as an alternative to a “normal” life. It annoys me that mass marketing packages living unmarried or childless as some sort of consolation prize to find the upside in. I want to set every list of “why being single is awesome” on fire. I do not need to counter every parent appreciation hashtag with a childless version, or every engagement photo with the patriarchal downsides of marriage. I have no interest in living life as a half of a sandwich.

My life is my choice, not an accidental crisis.

One of the things I appreciated about being in a relationship was it took a lot of pressure off me to fit everyone in for the holidays. Because it was assumed I was starting my own family, I was given freedom to start my own traditions. It was the one thing I chose to take with me back into unpartnered life as a hard line item. Why should I only be allowed to have a ritual or tradition of my choosing when I had a husband to share it with?

I want my own shit.

I just don’t want it to be the poor man’s version of a couple’s tradition.

 

 

Scallion-Herb Dutch Baby (Or, How Kingpin Taught Me to Love Eggs)

Ok, so it’s been a while.

Originally this blog was meant to detail how I found myself, one dish at a time. And probably the longest-running theme was learning how I liked my eggs.

Also, pancakes.

Mind you, there was a point where I hated both.

DutchBaby1

I think the latter had to do with the labor and ingredients required. As I am not a baker, this means a trip to the store for baking powder every time I wanted pancakes, to then toss the batch when I used it for exactly nothing else. I also had to time my cravings to fit the leftover buttermilk, so pancakes would always be followed by fried chicken or tandoori. AND? It is impossible to make just four pancakes, so I had to lament having no one to share Sunday mornings with as a pile of pancakes I knew I wasn’t going to finish went wistfully into the freezer.

Before you start, yes my pancakes have to be from scratch.

As the years passed I found out the reason I did not like eggs, or pancakes for that matter, was because I hadn’t found a way to make them attractive for my lifestyle as a person living alone, or suitable for the tastes I was developing.

Enter Daredevil, Season One, Episode 8.

If you have not caught Daredevil for lack of time, interest or a Netflix subscription, this particular episode features the backstory of the main villain Kingpin, all told between his routine preparations of breakfast. It is the most serene minute of omelet-making I have ever seen outside of a cooking documentary, complete with classical music and the hypnotic chopping of herbs.

From the day I have watched that episode; both classical music and herbs have become part of my breakfast routine.

I have since learned the French method for omelets, which have made me fall in love with eggs anew. And my pancake problem was solved by learning how to make them German-style.

Which bring us to our Dutch baby.

DutchBaby2

While most top them with fruit and some form of cream or curd, I have found that they work just as well when you have a savory craving. And with no baking powder or soda needed, my Sundays have become a celebration of tranquility.

Scallion-Herb Buttermilk Dutch Baby (Click HERE to Print)

Prep time: 15 minutes

Cook Time: 15-20 minutes

Servings:  2

3 Room-Temperature Eggs (place eggs in warm water for a few minutes to speed the process)

¾ Cup Buttermilk, Room Temperature (powdered buttermilk shines here)

2 Tablespoons Corn Starch

½ Cup All-Purpose Flour

4 Tablespoons Butter, Divided (Melt and cool 2 tbsp, reserve the other 2)

½ Tsp Salt

Pepper to taste (optional)

2 Tablespoons Chopped Herbs (I used a combination of parsley and chives)

2 Scallions, chopped

 

 Hand-Mixer or Blender

Cast-Iron or Oven-Safe Heavy-Bottomed Skillet

 

Place the skillet in the oven and preheat at 450 for around 15 minutes.

While the oven heats up chop the herbs and scallions, separating the white and green parts of the scallions.

In a bowl, add the eggs and beat on high until frothy, at least two minutes (alternatively, you can use a blender).

With the blender still running add the buttermilk, then corn starch, flour and the cooled melted butter.

Fold in salt, pepper and chopped herbs.

Remove the skillet out of the oven (CAREFUL, it is very hot!) and swirl the reserved butter in the pan (this step goes quickly). The butter should melt, not brown. Immediately pour the batter in the skillet and top with all of the white and half of the green scallions, and return to the oven.

Bake for 20 minutes, or until top is golden brown. The batter will puff up considerably, but will deflate once you take it out of the oven.

Remove and top with your favorite savory toppings! This works for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

How to Be Single: Step Ya P*ssy Up

I am not an inexhaustible resource. I am not the damn sun. I am not self-sufficient. I need help. I need support. I need someone behind me. I need a push. I need someone that does a bit more than nod when I talk about my future. I am completely ok being alone until that is present…because I can’t support myself alone AND be a supportive partner #AtTheSameDamnTime. If that makes me a [insert derogatory term for autonomous female] I will motherfucking BE.THAT. But what I WON’T be is exhausted trying to hold up two grown-ass people with no support in return.

The words flowed out of me in a manner I’ve yet to replicate (of course, on a post that was not mine), and I realized the subject matter had hit too close to home.

It was time for me to stop looking for a relationship.

(I also realized it was time to stop giving my words away, but that’s an entirely different post)

I have a hard rule that I stop when it isn’t fun anymore, and dating had long past its expiration date for me. I was tired of meeting new people. Tired of “putting myself out there”, waiting to be “picked”. Tired of being “the one before THE ‘one’”. Tired of setting standards for what I “deserve”. Tired of wondering why no one agreed with me. But most of all, I was tired of..being tired, and not really knowing why.

Till of course, I emptied my soul onto a comment section (& hit “publish” when I should have hit “cut & paste”).

I was tired because I was doing too damn much and asking for nothing. I was “showing my woman” to build a case while the only thing my romantic interest had to be was a person I liked, a person of envy. Their existence was enough for me, but I insisted on proving my usefulness to them. This is why I could come up with at least one tangible way I improved upon the life of my paramours but came up with nothing but bad skin on my end. So I unceremoniously tossed my lists and quietly cancelled the search for a significant other. If I was never going to be “enough”, there was nothing left for me to prove. My energy was best spent elsewhere.

But where? What now? What was it that I really wanted?

Noting all the “wants” and things I “deserved” centered on a relationship dynamic led me to two quite embarrassing realizations; one-outside of a relationship, men didn’t actually have a whole lot of stock in my life. I hadn’t viewed them as “people” in a while; capable of contributing to my life, or growth or anything, really-aside from proving to the world that I was a person worthy of choosing. And two-and likely the more important realization-part of the reason their existence was enough while I was doing all this work to prove my usefulness was because I confused envy for attraction, and just did not believe my existence enough reason for a person to be around me.

Truth be told, I am the damn sun. I just didn’t believe it yet.

It was time for a new list, and some new rules. The reason I was so exhausted was because all of my expectations began at a relationship-anything before that the price of admission was virtually free, and I was doing all the lifting to make sure he knew I was “relationship-worthy”. So what was required for my continued presence if relationships were off the table?

I’m going to have to pause here because I haven’t figured out how to expound on the details without breaking my rules of discretion, and because in the future not all of my words will be free. But I will say this; somewhere along the journey of discovering what it was I truly wanted to take away from affairs-casual, committed or otherwise-dating found a way to be fun again. I stopped walking away feeling drained and exhausted from the exchange, as it became more mutual. I stopped believing my worth lied in my usefulness instead of my presence. And most importantly, I became the person I envied.

 

So what about you? What does your “list” look like these days?

 

When to Fold Em, When to Walk Away

The holidays are upon us, and everyone is talking about Love.

New love, renewed love, the power of love, everyone‘s had love on the brain-and the overwhelming majority of it is romantic love. ‘Tis the season, after all. But for some, this is a season of discovering how strong self-love can be-and they learned it by letting go.

One such example is my friend Danielle, who detailed how she recently found the strength to walk away from a picture-perfect fairy-tale in her brave post “Why It’s Okay To Be Wrong: 7 Signs It Was Time To Call Off The Wedding”. For a bit of history, Danni and I became fast e-friends. We laughed over tales of dating mishaps and planned for the future as fabulous single women (I was of course still in my ‘try too hard’ LivingMyLifeLikeItsGolden single phase). Then Danni met “him”.

It was a tale I’d shared more times than I can count; the “second” you stop looking, love finds you-just look at Danielle! All seemed wonderful as she quickly became an even better version of her lovely self; she had a glow about her, she’d started writing more, she posted bikini pictures on vacation, happy with her hard-earned shape. He seemed quietly supportive of her travels and her creative endeavors. When the proposal happened, though it was quick, it was definitely not surprising. Everyone thought it fate, the natural progression of a fairy-tale.

Within the coming months things got quiet over on her end, a pop up here, a complaint of weight gain there. We made plans to hang but it never worked out, which I attributed to the business of wedding planning. Her blog posts slowed but again-weddings are a lot of work! So I thought nothing of the quiet on her end as I got bogged down with life on mine.

While her latest post was not out of left-field (it happens to the best of us) I couldn’t help but think of the times I stayed true to instincts and walked away when everything seemed perfect. Here’s three ways I knew it was time to stop fighting and walk away:

When it isn’t “fun” anymore

I once walked away from a business that seemed to align with my passions at the moment it became profitable. While all seemed well on the outside waking up to it every morning was a chore; it drained all my energy and going through the motions felt heavy. While no endeavor is going to be smooth sailing every day your commitment to your choice should make you feel light-and it hadn’t for a long time. I have a hard rule about walking away when it isn’t “fun” anymore-meaning, when I examine my core feelings about the project they no longer feel “light”-and while no one understood my choice at the time I have no regrets. In the end trusting my instincts proved to be the best choice-as less than a year later the industry declined and my biggest sponsor went out of business-a development that would have ruined me financially.

When my “whys” were all externally motivated

Most of us can relate to staying in a relationship too long-and mine was a doozy. We had one of those relationships that other people hash-tagged-we moved in unison, we finished not only each other’s sentences but each other’s jokes, and everyone who spent time with us said watching us together brought them peace. No one knew we’d been having the same argument regularly for close to a year and I hadn’t slept right in months. I’d gained weight, my skin looked terrible, I’d withdrawn from my creative projects and my friends. I’d stalled because I was taught you just don’t give up on that kind of connection-even if you’d been the only one fighting for a while. But when I looked around none of my reasons for staying had anything to do with me-it was “time”, “what would they think”, I’d look like a fool after wasting my “good years”.  Letting go was the right thing to do-even if at the time it made sense to no one but me-and the subsequent chapter of self-discovery and acceptance have hands-down been the best times of my life.

When I know I did my best, but still got a “no” from the Universe

This one has been the hardest to accept, but the most fruitful. When I decided I was going to go back to college, I had one school in mind. I compiled a portfolio, spend an untold amount of hours on the application and even enrolled in courses a la carte so they could see I was capable of maintaining a stellar GPA at their institution. My application was rejected-twice-before I decided to move on with my life and attend another school. Fast-forward a year and even with a major change I’ve managed to earn accolades every semester and my academic future has more opportunities than ever.

Walking away is never easy, and I’m not an expert so I can’t tell you what to do about the hard choices you have in your life. But what I can tell you is there is life at the other side of your choices. Just these three examples took you through ten years of my life, and I’m still here. So don’t be afraid to trust your gut and step into the unknown, even if it means walking away from a fairy-tale.

How to Be Single: DEMOLISH

I was supposed to be a wife.

I’m supposed to have a teenage daughter getting on my nerves right now.

I was supposed to be a partner.

I was supposed to laugh at the people who hadn’t figured out the key to this life thing was two people, showing up.

I was supposed to be celebrating my 10th anniversary in Rio, surrounded by the revelry of international sport.

I am not supposed to be here. Not alone.

My stages of grief seemed eternal. The hamster wheel of what was, how it should be, what it isn’t, how I am here. I mourned the loss of what was. I grieved what would not be. Tears with the patience of a hungry infant spilled clumsily into my daily activities, pockets of grief expelling themselves at the most inconvenient of moments.

Then The Dream Died. And I stopped.

I stopped. I stopped trying to make up for lost time. I stopped trying to catch up to where I would have been had my Dream not been deferred. I stopped fucking lying to myself about the source of my giving nature. I stopped identifying myself by my relationship status. I stopped believing myself a temporarily displaced wife. I stopped wondering if every man I met and liked would be the one to relieve me of my displacement. I stopped conducting myself as their temp-wife in preparation. I stopped believing everyone else was more deserving of my exquisitely transcendental love than I was. I stopped. I stopped. I did not let The Dream die. I killed her.

I don’t know when it happened. The day I killed The Dream. If I did, I’d have a fucking anniversary party.

Somewhere amidst the clouds of bereavement my soul sat up and said “this. This here. This is it. This is your life. Now get on with it.” And I saw the sun, and I took a breath, and the air was mine. I was no longer on borrowed time. My life is my own. And the possibilities endless.

****This post is part of Write Your Ass Off April, a Twenties Unscripted 10-Day Writing Challenge. This particular word stood out. Don’t ask me if I’m gonna get to the rest of it.

#WYAOApril