Sunday, December 21, 2008

Out. - "Preparation"

I have always been methodical about handling serious matters of personal development. When I decided that it was an appropriate time to come out, I did so with great caution. I first came out to myself, spending months going over thoughts, urges, memories, realizations, and epiphanies until I drew a satisfactory conclusion: I am sexually attracted to women. I fearfully tested the waters, sharing this information with my sister and my close friends Then, finally, I came out to my mother and a circle of elder women. Since these experiences left me feeling supported, grounded, and self-aware, I was able to move forward and begin to feel my way through the darkness of self-discovery.

For me, it was imperative that I handled the business of questioning, theorizing, and coming out before I began having experiences with women. I knew that same-sex relationships would offer up a unique serving of complexities that I wanted to smooth out as best as I could by minimizing my own emotional baggage. That seems funny now. Nonetheless, when I finally attracted a woman I deemed worthy of sharing this experience with me, I knew that she was to be a very significant piece of the puzzle that would eventually comprise a sense of sexual wholeness.

What I did not know is what that piece would cost me.


Tuesday, August 12, 2008

Unraveling Flowers

I am not solely this woman that people often perceive me to be. I probably should not be affirming this truth, but it feels like an untruth not to. I am a scarred woman. I have said this many times before, but I speak it now with the intention of of reversing or at least beginning to reverse the effects that sexual violence has had on me.

In February of 2006 I was raped while I attended Spelman College as a freshwoman. This experience greatly shaped my identity as a woman of Spelman. It also contributed to my ultimate decision to discontinue my matriculation there. I was hurt, wounded, and victimized. I experienced a lack of support from my school, and I felt as though there was nowhere for me to go to begin to heal. Thus, I abrubtly left Spelman in January of 2007.

I do not seek to place blame on any entity or institution in an effort to soothe my wounds. I am working on not blaming myself. Determining who is at fault is much less significant than examining the ramifications of what took place, for this is what I am currently experiencing.

I am a woman. I was born into this so-called "man's world." I am a daughter of Osun. Even as a young girl, an air of sexual energy always surrounded me. At the time of my youth I didn't rightly understand it, but I was always aware. I remember my aunt commenting on the way I walked, exclaiming that I was "swtichin' way too hard" and that I was probably interested in her man. I subsequently have a very keen awareness of how much sway is in each step I take. I was about eight years old.

I was about twelve years old when I had my first involuntary sexual experience. I was asleep in my room when I was awakened by a second cousin of mine who crept in and closed the door behind him. He was much older than myself, probably about five or six years older. I didn't know what he wanted or why he was in my room and without consciously knowing why, I became afraid. I decided that I would pretend to be asleep. He didn't speak to me as he climbed into my bed tossing my Barbie blanket to the floor and yanked down my pajama pants and underwear. I kept my eyes shut tight hoping that it would signal to him my fear and discomfort. I was too afraid to speak or struggle. I winced as he tried to penetrate me. He chuckled at the difficulty of it, seemingly surprised to find that I was a virgin. Eventually he gave up and satisfied himself with the sensation of rubbing his penis against my vulva until he ejaculated all over me and my Barbie sheets. When he was finished he carelessly tossed my blanket over me, leaving my clothing and body in disarray.

I had never felt such wetness between my legs before, so needless to say I felt completely tainted and very sick to my stomach. When I felt that it was safe I ran to the bathroom to clean myself up and throw up. It was the first time I had ever had a room of my own and prior to this incident I had been very proud of it. I found myself unable to re-enter my room after leaving the bathroom, so I squeezed into my mother's bed, settling for the corner as her bed was already heavily occupied.

At the time I could not see how my sexuality was being misshaped and its development interrupted. Since that incident, and even more so after I was raped two years ago, I have had very few healthy sexual experiences. Now whenever I engage in sexual activity with a man, I am having the experience of being raped all over again. It is very traumatic and I have not been able to heal myself to the point where I am able to return to a state of normalcy.

In engaging in sexual relationships with women, I have found them to be a lot better for me. I am able to get comfortable enough to enjoy the experience and assert my sexual needs and wants. I am understood and held emotionally, and I do not feel obligated to have sex at the first sign of an intimate act (as I have felt with men).

I have not mistakenly "turned gay" in an attempt to conceal my wounds. In fact, I believe that the sexual violence that I experienced at a young age stifled my sexual development in a way that deterred me from acting on my (already present) attraction to women. Only after I embarked on a conscious journey to heal my sexuality did I free that part of myself and realize that it is okay for me to act on my attraction to women. Though I am not fooled into thinking that dating women is my cure, for those relationships are also tainted with sexual dysfunction. Irregardless of who I engage in sexual activity with, male or female, It is usually very difficult for me to reach an orgasm unless extra measures are taken.

Most end up throwing up their hands in exasperation eventually. Others have cheated and deceived their way out. Some linger like the smoke of glowing embers unable to detach themselves from me even when they know that it could never work. I can't blame any of them. I know that what I need to do to accelerate my healing is practice celibacy, but I inevitably end up beneath some man with tears in my eyes. I should probably stop picking my scabs.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Down the Rabbit Hole

So I returned to the house that I call home and found it in more disarry than when I left it two weeks prior. Or perhaps it was just a different sort of disarray. In either case, I entered my sanctuary to find it slightly desecrated, yet neat. Piles and piles of things stacked in crates and bags and baskets and hidden in corners or behind the bed. In a few days when it slid into its now natural state of gargantuan clutter, I could not breathe while standing in my room, bugs crawling on my floor and bed sheet. Ew. I nearly had a panic attack standing there with this huge mountain of physical and metaphoric clutter about to topple onto my head. I could not think in there. It took me almost two hours to decide what to wear because my mind would not function.

I sat on a crate in the hallway outside of my door playing my guitar Tony. I couldnt play in there. One person then went into my room to listen to music and dress, closing the door in front of me. I played a bit louder, my tune staging an unsilent protest led by my spirit. Minutes later another person yelled to me from downstairs to play more quietly, I was interferring with the TV. With my spirit bruised but not broken, I played softly.

It felt like the dwelling of a truly depressed person. My rooms used to feel like this a lot. Damn, just when I thought I was finished with that. Is my depression now internalized? Latent, but not healed? Maybe I don't really want to know the answer to that.

And who am I to need a friend? Who am I to need a cigarette or a hug or a shoulder? I'm so strong, right? Yeah, so. I cry a lot, that's how I seem so strong. There are lessons in failure.

And so because there was this percived reality of me having no place of my own in my own home (a trigger for a traumatic childhood memory for me), I guess I had to get out of there... again. So I've returned to the place where I just spent two weeks awaiting my nephew's grand arrival. Home town Mil-town.

And now I have to do this really big thing. Not 'have to' as in obligated, but divinely appointed. Assisting in his ushering in. I think I'm ready... almost.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Humdilila Allah Jehova Yaweh Dios Maat Jah, Rastafari!

I long to stay awake... searching for this beautiful world... peace... searching within and without...

I find ways to keep Divinity in my consciousness, to keep my path illuminated at this time. The time of lingering in shadows in done for now. It's time to step out from underneath the shady Pine and step into the Sun... Vitamin D is essential.

I talked to my sisterhomiefriend Chantal today. She's been in Morocco for some time now, so we spoke over the internet phone system called Skype, which was delightful because I got to look at her while we spoke. Stellar. It was so enriching to speak with her, to feel full, post conversation, to speak to someone who is much more interested in giving energy to me, giving me a space to release and share and be filled. She is my cup. The sun shines again.

And I have been learning and growing like a toddler. How to speak my mother's language. How to honor myself. How to miss my family (Windsor Tribe) while still remaining in my joy.

I have longed to be this awake.

Erykah Badu's latest has been feeding me. Activating my chakras with 'The Healer', and I think I channeled J Dilla while listening to 'Telephone'... music is amazing.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Secrecy Breeds Depravity

...and this is only in the high school Kappa League...

What the fuck are we doing? I know a lot of people may get mad at this post, and for different reasons. To that I say, yes! Become enraged, outraged, fucking grossed out (I almost threw up myself). After that I ask you to ask yourself; what would you sacrifice to be accepted? Amongst your peers? By your parents? By your children? Spouse or significant other? How low into the depths of humanity would you stoop?

I will never look at a Black Greek with the same eyes. Even the term 'Black Greek' is problematic to me. Greece? Really? I mean... This is not our tradition. Look at this shit, that's some European ass shit if I've ever seen it, like a fair skinned Jesus. Give me a fucking break.

Does it solidify one's manhood to let another man shove a red and white striped cane up his rectum while he masturbates, or allow another man to ejaculate on his face? Does it make you my brother to allow you to rape me with a stick? Does the fact the two women are forced to perform cunnilingus on one another make them sisters? Can this really be rationalized? Fuck hazing, this is more significant than hazing. This is self degredation at its finest. We don't know our language, so we use theirs. We dont know our traditions, so we adapt theirs. We dont know our 'God,' so we worship theirs.

Conformity at its scariest.

As a former Woman of Spelman, I am no stranger to strange initiation tactics. Being awakened (along with the rest of the freshman class) from a deep slumber in the dead of night to walk in circles for hours singing the school's hymn (which was written in the 1930's from a very Christian perspective), I rubbed the girlhood from my eyes and awoke to a reality: people give a shit about fitting in... a lot. People will die for that shit... Needless to say, I didn't last very long at Spelman. I just couldnt understand why I had to do certain things to be a part of this group. I was already paying $27,000 a year to do that.

How do I look at these reflections of myself without a frown. All proud and skee-weeing and whatnot. I understand that people need something to be a part of, but that shit, that Greek shit, just feels void of light at the root. I mean... Ancient Greece was a demoralized mockery of Ancient Afrikan traditions and empires (if you ask me). So what the fuck sense does it make for Afrikans to be on some Greek shit? Use your own fucking history and traditions to unify. Learn the Kemetic alphabet. Who is Maat? Where do your people come from? ...Not Texas or Alabama, but before that? My people come from Haiti and West Africa; what the fuck business do I have being involved in some self-degrading Greek shit? Your ancestors frown.

What cloaks it in darkness is the secrecy. When something refuses to be illuminated, I always question its motive. Secrets are a necessary part of human existence (and created only to be exposed), however secrecy and percieved power in it breeds all kinds of darkness that remains untapped in the light.
Let's use 'This Thing of Ours' as a prime example. '2TO' was a secret society (akin to the great Skull and Bones) that thrived and fell at Morehouse College during my tenure at Spelman. There were allegations of plans to defraud a charity organization, rigged campus elections and pagents, hazing, and things of the like. People don't form secret societies to spread light and love unnamed, they form them to do dirt in darkness. Interstingly, the 'Black Skull and Bones' held no real power in the city, state, or nation, as their muse organization did/does. They were inflitrated, disbanded, and humiliated; for all things done in darkness will be illuminated. (How do you think I got this picture?)
One final point in my rant, or call it a call for truth and honor: people, Black people, what the fuck are you doing? Learn your history and traditions so that you won't lose yourselves in the warped traditions of other peoples. (What is Christmas really about?) Become self-aware, not self-degrading. What did you have to do for those letters, and what do they really mean? Look to the Motherland for guidance, not fucking Greece.
That is all.

Monday, May 12, 2008

Nectar Sips, Missed Flights, and Muffled Moans

I am not the same person this evening that I was this morning...and how can I even write these words without thinking of what she would think if she knew I was even thinking about writing these words. I am frustrated. Muzzled. I am beginning to appear unfamiliar to myself. I must return to center. That's what this trip is about, I guess.

I caught a flight home to Milwaukee today. Even after missing my 6:50am flight, I had the most smooth, hassle-free, relaxing traveling experience that I've ever had. Everyone was kind and accommodating, people smiled and chatted with me under the mistaken assumption that I was a seasoned musician (They saw me carrying my guitar, Tony). Why is it that when people see me with an instrument, or writing, they feel entitled to a free concert or reading?

Anyway, I flew in over The Great Lake that my little city sits on around one o'clock pm. I am here, but I am still in Atlanta. It's weird...

Friday, May 9, 2008

To Love...

The Ten of Cups:
feeling joy
embracing happiness
having a sense of well-being
radiating love
delighting in good fortune
counting your blessings
expressing delight

enjoying peace
experiencing serenity
doing away with hostilities
restoring harmony
reducing stress and tension
feeling contented and at ease
calling a truce

looking to the family
working for peace in the home
going on a family event
reaffirming a family commitment
supporting a relative in need
bonding with family members
forgiving someone in the family

This is where I am, the space that I sit in, what covers me. Today has as yet been so divine for me, mostly experienced through the joy experienced by the people around me that I love. I had two self-inflicted orgasms today, which was so thrilling. I almost forgot what it was like to pleasure myself, touch my own breasts. I haven't been masturbating much lately, I've been so outwardly focused as far as pleasure is concerned. I have returned to that place of pleasure and joy in myself, and that is when I am most fulfilled. I really just want to mention how great of an orgasm I had today in the shower. Whether or not it is crass to do so, I feel that it must be shouted from the rooftops, because it was so amazing. It took seven minutes, hot water, and one vibrator. The D, the D, the D... (Duracell)... There's a poem brewing...