​I started going to African Braid Shops back in 2001. I’d just graduated from high school and cut off all my hair for prom. Summer came around, and everybody was rocking cornrows like the singer Lil Mo. I wanted cornrows too, but my mother was my hair-braider, and she could not grip the inch of hair on my head to successfully braid me down. So I ventured to the Mecca of African braiders—East 125th Street in Harlem. There I met Barry. If this blog somehow gets around to her, girl, you were the best. Barry was able to grip my short strands, and she remained my go-to person for about two years. Since then, I’d become a regular at a few African braid shops. As someone who suffers from anxiety and claustrophobia, traveling from The Bronx to 125th Street became tedious and exhausting, and that is how I started discovering and meeting other braiders in The Bronx.
Between 2003 and 2005, I was going to a braider on Castle Hill in The Bronx. She had a small shop, in which she was the only braider, and she sold other products like shea butter and black soap. She also maintained dreadlocks. I was with my daughter’s father at the time, who’d just locked his hair. He and my daughter have an opposite hair texture from mine. Their hair is thick and coarse, with really tight kinks to it. I often refer to mine as “cotton and lace,” because it’s super fine and super soft. This Castle Hill braider once said to me flat out, “Your hair no good for braid. Your husband and your baby, very good for braid. But not you.” I still tell the story because she still took my money and still braided my hair.

In 2017, I started going to another shop on Castle Hill for Marley and kinky twists. I loved how I looked with the thick rope twists, but eventually learned that the hair used for the style was not good for my cotton & lace strands at all. I lived in a little bit of denial before coming to that conclusion, and before I completely gave up on using that kind of hair, I was getting smaller, shorter twists. I noticed that the twists around the perimeter, edges of my hair, didn’t last more than a day or two. The synthetic hair would slide off my hair, taking some of my strands with it. One day, while getting my hair twisted, I asked the braider to use less hair for the section she parted or make the parts bigger. I said, “I think that’s too much hair for the section. When I go home, the hair is gonna slide right off.”
She said, “No, it’s not.”
I said, “It happens all the time. I think you should use less hair, or make the parts bigger. Or you could even leave it out completely, and I’ll just brush it down.”
She took this attitude like, you’re telling me what to do as the braider? She said, “I know what to do. It’s not coming out.” Then she proceeded to do exactly what I asked her not to do. The next morning, the twists slid out, and of course, some of my hair was stuck in them.

Now, African braiders have long had a reputation for creating immaculate braid styles, and the trade-off was how intensely they braided. Black-American women took “beauty is pain” to another level; sitting in these hot, sweaty shops, with women yelling over our heads in another language, jerking our skulls left and right, and pinching our scalps to the point of long-lasting pain and damaged roots and hair shafts.
 
I don’t know exactly when Black-American women became especially steeped in our hair care over how our hair looked, but when that happened, we started showing up to braid shops with standards. Some braiders and shop owners complied to keep their clientele, and others don’t seem to care.  
In 2020, when entrepreneurship soared, many women took the time to elevate their braiding skills to that of the famous African braid shops. Now, there are just as many Black-American braiders as African braiders, and there is real competition. I’ve noticed some changes in the shops, but from a distance, because I started to rely on Black-American braiders such as my niece and my sister.

I no longer live in The Bronx, where my sister and niece both live, and where I know how to find everything I need. I am now in Essex County, New Jersey, trying to find my way around my beauty maintenance. I do still mostly drive back across the bridge to my sister, but she didn’t have availability this past weekend, so I took a chance on an African shop in Orange.
Well…
 
So I Googled African hair braiders and came across this place in Orange that appeared a little more upscale than what African braid shops were like in the past. They also had the highest ratings in the area on Google. I figured, based on those two details, the customer service would be better than past experiences as well. Assumptions do what now? Yeah… so, on the website it says “We take walk-ins all day,” but then they also suggest that you call before arriving, I guess, to get an idea of potential wait time. I did that. I called, and whoever answered the phone acted like I was bothering her. It sounded like she was on the verge of saying, “We take walk-ins; why are you calling?” So I reminded her that the website said to call in advance. She was pretty much like, “Yeah, okay. You coming or not?” So I said I would be there shortly.
 
I get there and the shop looked as I expected: spacious, clean, and comfortable. That was cool. The woman at the front sent me to another lady’s chair. That lady asks me about hair color. I asked if they had 2.
She said, “No. 1b.”
Then I took my hat off, and she goes, “We have 4.”
I said, “That’s fine. Can we mix it with something lighter as well?”
She showed me a few different shades of blonde; I chose one, and then she directed me back to her chair. I got comfortable, and then she said, “I’m gonna take lunch now. I’m going to eat. I’ll come right back.”
In my head, I’m like, “WHAT?!” When I got there, she was chillin in her chair! It’s not like I walked in and she was on her way to the back, in the back, or eating. Ya girl was feet up in the chair, chillaxin’!
All I could say was, “Okay,” because I was desperate. I had a wedding to attend, and I was not up to manipulating my own hair, plus an extension, into some kind of elegant bun or ponytail. I was also not interested in disappointing myself if the style didn’t come out right. 
 
After about twenty minutes, she returns and gets started. I was happy to see she had a wide-toothed comb and did not proceed to rake my head with a tiny-toothed rat-tail comb or something. But then she started that first braid, and I thought I was going to die. I was immediately taken back to 2001, the first time I had my hair braided in a shop, and I only had an inch of hair on my head. At that time, a tight grip was necessary. My hair is now at its normal average length, somewhere between my collarbone and shoulders. (I’m also in desperate need of a trim.) She parted carefully, applied braid gel, and then proceeded to grip my hair as if it were tiny ants trying to escape her. Just as she began the second braid, I said, “The first braid feels a little tight, and it hurts.”
She said, “Oh, you don’t want it tight?”
I said, “No.”
I kid you not, she braided tighter on the second braid. I’m thinking, “What the entire fuck? Is she slow? I know she heard what I said.”
After a while, other braiders came to help her, and for some reason, that’s when she loosened her grip. I thought the other braiders were my saving grace until they all started talking to each other at full volume, over my head. I don’t know what language they spoke. Unfortunately, for all the braid shops I’ve been to and all the African students I taught, I have not learned to decipher the languages and dialects. That’s not to say that if they were speaking English, it would’ve been better for me. Three women shouting at each other and pulling your head in three different directions is overstimulating in any language. By the time they began working on the back of my head, I wanted to FaceTime my little sister crying like, “Gurl, save me!”

​When I left, my head was heavy and throbbing; an experience I haven’t had in almost a decade, and the style was mediocre. The braids were in the shape and direction I wanted, but they were not knotless or stitched like the picture I showed the braider. The best thing about the whole experience was not having to do my hair the day of the wedding. I took Tylenol when I got home and sprayed an abundance of Kaleidoscope braid spray on my hairline. I also massaged the front of my head with one of Back & Lather’s oils, because the combination of synthetic hair with extreme pulling is a recipe for disaster on already thin hair.
 
I told this whole story to come to these questions: Whassup with African braiders? What’s really good? Why can’t we come to a shop and receive both efficient customer service as well as consideration and hair care? Why do we have to sacrifice those things? Why do your customers have to feel as if they’ve been assaulted when they leave your shop, either physically or verbally?
 
I am legitimately curious. My hair has been braided beautifully by my mother and aunt and later my niece and sister, without them pulling my cotton and lace strands like the strings of a corset. So I know the style doesn’t need all that to be successful. You’re no longer cornering the market in terms of braiding, sooo… why not consider incorporating better treatment of your clients? Don’t argue with them about their hair type or color. Acquiesce when they ask you to consider what’s needed to maintain their hair care. Be a little more considerate when chatting with your shop mates.
 
Although I put all of this out there, I won’t be going back. I’ll be making an effort to secure appointments in advance with my sister. My cotton-lace coif was not made to withstand such abuse in the name of beauty.

​So, I see all the chatter about Da’Vinchi’s comments on Black Americans. I don’t usually chime in on this kind of thing because, although I consider myself an academic and heavy on Black history (across the diaspora), I don’t have enough confidence to open the apps and start chatting about it. Lately, though, I’m like, lemme run with these thoughts, whether they land in my journal or a blog post. Da’Vinchi ain’t going in my journal. When my daughter finds it and reads it after I’m gone, she’ll be reading it to get to know the woman-Mommy, not the Mommy who doom-scrolled on the toilet every morning. I know my child; she don’t care about that. Blog readers… y’all gon get it though.
 
As I opened my laptop to jot these notes down, I said, lemme see how old lil baby Da’Vinchi is, because I was prepared to give him grace. He’s thirty. I gotta save that grace for twenty-nine and below. *Chuckling* I don’t know what it is with me. I always wanna give grace, but if you’re over thirty, it bothers me to do so. Of course it depends on the circumstances. For example, if he wasn’t born here, but that baby was born in Brooklyn a little over a week before my sister. Is anybody going to tell him, Haitian-American born here is just Black-American??

​I don’t do diaspora wars because I am an example of when the diaspora mixes. My mother is Black American, and my father is Antiguan. Yes, I was raised in the American household, but I was not excluded from Caribbean culture. And you know what? I feel like that’s a unique experience that doesn’t get talked about enough because people are so busy fighting to be the best version of Black culture. There is no best in the group. To be Black in any culture is to be the best. That’s it. (The leaps that could be made if we all knew that.)
 
I’m in a relationship with a Haitian man—my first. Growing up, I mostly avoided dating Black Americans with no Caribbean or African heritage because I felt misunderstood by them. They said that curry stunk and turned their noses up at pepper pot. They ridiculed Calypso and Soca music. When they heard my father’s side of the family speak, they assumed they were Jamaican, because apparently at that time, Jamaica and Trinidad were the only Caribbean countries. *eye roll*
 
Anyway, I chose boys who I felt were like me. The ones whose one or both parents were born on an island but came here in the 70s or 80s. However, in high school, Haitians were a “hell no.” I never heard this in my own household because obviously we weren’t prejudiced within the diaspora. The women in my family happily brought home Caribbean men. I don’t know if anyone brought home a Haitian, though. I went to school with what seemed like the entire Caribbean, but if anyone was Haitian, they didn’t let it be known. I’m also from The Bronx, where we don’t have a major Haitian population anyway. Still, if Haiti came into the conversation, the noses turned up, and the insults and stereotypes came tumbling out of my peers’ mouths: they stink, fish is the only thing they eat, boys don’t eat the spaghetti at your Haitian girl friend’s house—if she likes you, she’ll put her menstrual blood in it and you’ll never be able to leave her (that was a southern thing too, by the way), and of course, all their old folks were Voodoo Priests & Priestesses. So simply by peer pressure, I steered clear of Haitians.
 
Here's the dumb shit, though: in 2002 I got pregnant by a Dominican.
 
Because what the fuck is the difference between a Haitian and a Dominican?
Language and whitewashing, but that’s a conversation for another day.
 
Quick aside: My daughter’s father is one of my closest friends now, and when I told him about my “new boyfriend,” He laughed and said, “Can’t keep your ass off the island, huh?”
 
In my experience of loving and living with a Dominican and a Haitian at different times in my life, there isn’t a huge difference. In fact, there isn’t a huge difference between them and Antiguan households, and there isn’t a huge difference between them and Black American households. That’s why when it comes to the diaspora, there is no best. To be Black is to be the best. Period. (No t’s and no Poos, I am a grown woman.)

Now here I am, waist-deep in this relationship with this Haitian-American man who, at first, was nervous to tell people that my mother is American. I was a bit shocked because I am super proud of my cultural makeup. But then I had to think to myself, as a teenager, I would’ve been embarrassed to say I’d fallen for a Haitian boy. While my friends were dragging Haitians, he was growing up hearing what Da’Vinchi heard in his home—that Black Americans were lazy and mostly criminals. Then he moved to the Midwest for a while, and the first person to welcome him was a Black American in a predominantly white town, just looking for another Black face to relate to. That young man didn’t see a Haitian boy whose family practices Voodoo. He saw Brown skin, thick lips, and a wide nose that resembled people in his own family. He saw a brother. He saw kin. Today, in me, my Love sees kin, and he had to bring his family to that understanding. (Sounds like I gave him grace in his old age, and I guess I did. Perhaps because he wasn’t in public saying wild shit, he was just a little hesitant.)

Da’Vinchi opened his mouth, and ignorance came tumbling out. I wanted to give him grace, but he’s past my age limit. Instead, I’d be willing to put together reading material and documentaries for him, and I’d order him to be silent until he’s done as much learning as possible to know that he’s been used, and he’s gotta turn that around.

Yesterday was Albertha’s homegoing service. I mentioned in the previous blog that Albertha was not easy to get along with. I didn’t say much about it, but I wasn’t the only one in the family who struggled to get along with her. It’s funny because the pastor chosen to give the Eulogy is one who practically grew up with my mother and aunt in our home church. He became my youth pastor and went on to build his own church as a senior pastor. The first pastor we came to know at our home church died in the late 1990s, and the youth pastor, Pastor Mitchel, became the interim pastor for a while. At that time, he was asked to counsel my family because of the drama in my household that often erupted between my grandmother, mother, and aunt.
 
The day my grandmother passed, my mother made sure to contact Pastor Mitchel to give the eulogy. All of us except my grandmother left the home church when Pastor Mitchel left to build his own. She’s known two or three pastors since then. Still, I didn’t believe any of them knew her the way Pastor Mitchel did. I knew he would know what to say at her service, and he nailed it. He described her as “the real deal.” D for devoted. E for encouraging. A for anointed, and L for loving. He was right, and in his message he alluded to how, although she was the real deal, her delivery was sometimes harsh or even damaging. That was the thing about Albertha. She wanted control, not for bad reasons, but it was an unrealistic way of dealing with family.
 
People were allowed to speak, and now I’m thinking I should have, but I didn’t want to at the time because I hate the spotlight. I love attention, but hate the spotlight, if that makes sense. I only want all eyes on me when I feel like the moment is truly about me. Sometimes I feel like people use funerals as a moment to shine, and it annoys me. To avoid being what I can’t stand, I haven’t spoken at a funeral since I was eleven years old.
 
Anyway, if I spoke yesterday, I would’ve told this story:
 
Once, when I was about fifteen or sixteen. I was complaining about not getting what I wanted because “we ain’t never got no money.”
My grandmother called me into her room on a night when she happened to be home and pointed to her dresser. Her paycheck was sitting there, and next to it were several envelopes. She said, “You always complainin’ about money and how it should be spent. There’s my check. Pay the bills with it.”
I snorted, then looked at the amount on the check. I don’t remember how much it was, but at the time, it seemed like a lot of money to me. I scoffed and said, “Okay.” I shrugged my shoulders, thinking this should be easy. She got mad money. I’ll show her.
I started with the highest bill, which I believe was the mortgage, and worked my way down. I think there were two bills left and not enough money. I froze. “Grandma, this ain’t enough,” I said, feeling like a damn dummy.
She just looked at me—a knowing look in her eyes.
Then I said, “Your Avon money!”
At home she was Grandma; to others she was Bert, or Bertha; at church she was Sister Alberta, and at work she was Ms. Harley, aka The Avon Lady, and I was her inventory manager. The sunroom in our house was her inventory space. She had shelves and drawers packed with Avon products. (I used to steal the makeup in seventh and eighth grade.) She would receive orders at work and give them to me. I would bag the stuff and staple the receipt to the bag, like we had a real store. I would fold pages or circle products in the catalogues that she was low on; Grandma would order the stuff, and I would restock the shelves. Nobody ever made purchases through me, but I tried to get my hustle on too.  So the idea came on like a lightbulb in my head: Avon money!
Grandma looked at me and said, “Now you’re thinking.” Then she proceeded to show me bank deposits from Avon and how to pay attention to due dates, double up on certain payments, etc.

My other grandmother, Miriam, was a hustler too. Every once in a while, Gramma would say things in Spanish or randomly teach me a word in Spanish. I’m from the Bronx, where it’s weird if you don’t speak any Spanish at all. So I was under the impression that she learned Spanish when she came here. Nope. According to my dad, my grandmother’s hustle was traveling to Puerto Rico and bringing home items to sell in Antigua.
 
Now here I am in my early forties, trying to make the best of my many talents. Multiple streams of income are all the rage now, but Black people have been doing that for years. It’s weird to me that Black women have been deemed lazy in this country, when we’re the jugglers of everything. We don’t panic at the idea of working and managing children and a home. We just do it. My grandmothers were so smooth with their hustles. They didn’t boast or complain. They worked hard as caregivers, hustled on the side, and spent their money on things they liked and felt they deserved, as well as luxuries for the families. I remember calling my Gramma (Miriam) one day and complaining about the transportation office I worked in at the time, and she simply said, “Well, ya do what yuh have to do until you can do what yuh want to do.” It was very simple advice, but it gave me hope that one day I would be able to do what I want to do. In 2017 I’d earned my BA in English Lit, and self-published two novellas. Since then, I’ve started a freelance business, writing, editing, and coaching.
 
I’m currently working part-time in adult education and, for the last six months, since having surgery, I’ve been bent on finding a full-time job. Now I’m thinking back on the lessons and advice from my hustling bookends and wondering: is this the time? I thought I started doing what I wanted to do in 2017 when I self-published. I thought I was doing what I wanted to do when I got a job in education in 2019. I thought I was doing what I wanted to do in 2021 when I started my business. Now I’m like, maybe this is the time Gramma was talking about. I find a billion things to do with my time when I’m not working, one of them being job hunting. Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. Maybe instead of searching for ways to give my time and talent to another organization, I should be nurturing my own.
 
Perhaps this was another ramble… I don’t know.
 
Thanks again to my difficult bookends. I’m going to take the hustle spirit and use all I have to do what I want. Now that y’all are probably back to gossiping about me, I feel like I cannot let y’all down.

This is the second time I’m saying this phrase. My father’s mother died in 2016. My mother’s mother died two days ago. Both were difficult women. Both were the epitome of this “strong Black woman” narrative. Both were insanely passionate about their families, but it was hard to read, hard to understand until they were on their way out.

My dad’s mother, Miriam, had the slickest mouth I’d ever heard. She called one of her own sons an “empty peanut shell.” At my high school graduation, she told me at a table full of people that my dress was ugly, or rather, “dat dress look ugly on you.” We happened to all be in Antigua for carnival one year, and for J’ouvert I dropped my daughter off (along with my cousins’ kids) at her house and hit the streets. The next day, she was going off—“what kind of mother jus lef and don’t check she pickney?!” My grandmother was not the only one home, nor was she the one we expected to watch the girls. My uncle was there, and my dad was in and out. My dad said, “Don’t pay her no mind. She wants them there. The girls are with their family, and she’s actually loving every minute of it. She just needs to fuss.” When I finally went to “check muh pickney,” my grandmother carried on about how the kids lost her remote control. (Mind you, she didn’t want us to take the kids; she just wanted to complain to us about them.) But we picked the kids up anyway. Later, we passed by the house, and my cousin tiptoed inside to get something, thinking my grandmother was taking a nap. Absolutely not; she was sitting at her table, waiting to go off on one of us about our kids. When I was little, my grandmother called me “Meme” and always said, “I love you,” when we hung up the phone. That ceased when I got pregnant at eighteen. But then, in the months before she passed away, the “I love yous” were back.

​My mother’s mother, Albertha, was another story. I was raised under her roof, so my relationship with her was even more complicated. When I was little, I was her star. I wanted to be everywhere my grandmother was. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, a nurse, like my grandma. Her bedroom furniture, in true 1970s fashion, was white wood and mirrors. Her closets were packed to the gills with women’s skirt suits, sequined dresses, and wool and fur coats in garment bags. The first two drawers of her chest of drawers (which I grew up calling “chessa-drawz”) were loaded with both real and costume jewelry and accessories. This woman didn’t get dressed without a brooch on her lapel or scarf. Her dresser had bottles of perfume and a gold comb, brush, and mirror set that she never actually used. (I used the brush when I snuck into her room to play with her things.) She went to church every Sunday and sang in the senior choir, which led to me singing in both the children’s choir and the youth choir. She worked a 4:00 pm-12:00 am shift, but on her days off she read bible stories to her grandkids or took us places… and then I became a teenager and things went left. Honestly, I wasn’t necessarily rebellious against her. It’s just that the rose-colored lenses she had me wearing no longer fit. I joke about her wanting me to wear a slip under my dresses, but that might be where it started. EVERY SINGLE THING became a battle. I would go to her with what I thought were small requests, because grandmas were supposed to say yes when the parents said no, but I still got a no from her and watched my brothers get a yes. Unlike Miriam, Albertha was happy when I told her I was pregnant, but then I didn’t seem to be doing motherhood right or good enough for her. Things got so bad that there was a situation that I won’t get into detail about, but I was in my early twenties, and because I wasn’t doing what she thought I should be doing, she cold-slapped me across the face. She’d never hit me before. I was stunned and devastated—because we weren’t even arguing. I hadn’t raised my voice at her, and I didn’t cuss. I simply stood my ground, and the response to that was an open-handed slap. Later, in my thirties, I was constantly bombarded with accusations that I didn't love her. The message I derived from that was, “You not letting me control you means you don’t love me.” Living with that sentiment from your grandmother is crazy. But as things would have it, in the last four years, she became loving and semi-understanding again. She ended all her text messages with “love you much-ly.” By then, I’d set firm boundaries and limited communication with her. I wasn’t the only one who’d been her punching bag one way or another, and I really hadn’t experienced the worst. When she passed, I found out she apologized to the person who’d caught unfiltered hell from her, and that cleared so much tension in my chest. Who knew?

Anyway, yeah, my grandma died. My bookends are gone. With all their complexities and dysfunction, they managed to nurture their grandchildren better than they nurtured their own children. Arguments and all, I slept in Albertha’s bed until I was pregnant. At Miriam’s house, I knew I could cuddle up next to her at any time (evil side-eyes and all). Miriam wasn’t happy about my pregnancy, but she was happy when I brought my baby home. Both of them loved on their great-grandbaby and helped me however they could with advice, money, or just holding my baby for me. They were both hardworking hustlers, devoted to God, and perfect ladies.
 
When I was little, Miriam had a stroke. I would either call her or see her every Sunday. For maybe two or three Sundays in a row, my Grampa Percy kept saying, “Gramma is sick. She has a cold.” It was weird. After a while, my mother got involved, and somebody told her about the stroke. My mother wanted to bring me to see her, but Miriam did not want any and everybody looking at her in her state. It wasn’t until my father came into town that I finally saw her. This woman, who kept a neat jherri-curl, had chunky braids in her hair and could barely move. I get it.
 
Before bonnets became a thing, Albertha was the only woman I knew who slept with a bonnet on her head, and that bonnet never made it to the first floor of our house. Head scarves and bonnets were not to be seen anywhere but your bedroom, and yeah, okay, the bathroom. They were not for public eyes. They were not for daytime.
 
Perfect ladies they were.

My grandfather Percy died in 2012. I was twenty-eight (going on twenty-nine). Four years later, Miriam was gone in 2016 (I’d just turned thirty-three). 2020, the COVID fog took my grandfather Jack (I was thirty-seven). My grandparents were leaving me in four-year intervals. I thought I was gonna lose Albertha in 2024. I tried to mentally prepare for a life with no grandparents. Then 2025 came, and Albertha was still here, so then I didn’t know what to do. Eventually, as her mobility declined and her mind deteriorated, I let go of trying to be prepared; it was happening in slow-motion.
 
Hours after she’d taken her last breath, I waited for all of my siblings to go into her room—not to say goodbye, but to tell her no matter what she thought, I love her. Somehow I knew I needed to be with my heartbeats for that moment. If you know me, you know I hate crying in front of people, and I am terrified of vomiting. So, on the way to the nursing home and outside her room, I shed some quiet tears and whimpered a little bit… But when I crossed the threshold and the curtain was pulled back, a cry erupted from me like projectile vomit, and at first, I couldn’t stop. The room started to spin, I started sweating, and I couldn’t even stand up straight. My siblings and my daughter had to hold me up. They all waited for me to gain composure before moving forward.
 
It was hitting me—“Oh shit, they are all gone!” I am on this earth with just my parents (thank God they’re both still here)! But just Jackie and Andrew?! Did y’all finish teaching them everything?? I grew up; I had adulthood with the security of all FOUR biological grandparents. What a blessed and enchanted life I was somehow chosen to live. Now what?
 
So yeah, my grandma died. She was the youngest of my four, and she made it to eighty-eight. The others got as far as eighty-five or six, I believe.

People love to tell you, "Life is short; cherish the moments you have with your grandparents,” etc. I don’t know about the rest of y’all, but it was said to me in ways to guilt me for setting boundaries with Albertha. The truth is, though, the boundaries helped me love her more and truly cherish the good times with her. I can say, not just in writing but out loud to anyone who asks, that my grandmother was difficult and I don’t regret the boundaries and space I put between us. It never meant that I didn’t love her. In fact, I did what I had to do to protect my immense love for her, and I never wanted her qualities to be weighed down by her flaws.
 
I don’t know if this blog is coming off like a grief-ramble, and I don’t necessarily care. I knew I would feel the urge to write about and share my feelings again when Albertha finally crossed over. And I still didn’t say everything. But I’ll end this part with this: Black women have the most difficult history. We are literally the earth mother, and we are treated the worst. This is why my grandmothers had hard exteriors. I understand that. But we now live in the age of information, access to therapy, and, personally, I am keen on reflection. It is totally okay to protect yourself from the dysfunction of older Black women in your life. It helps you better understand them, and it deepens your love and compassion for them. You don’t have to be their punching bags to love them, and it’s okay if they don’t get it at first. At the end of the day, we all mean well.

​Thank you, Miriam and Albertha. I’m praying that people see the lady and the hustler in me that you both had in yourselves.

Happy Wednesday…

I’m up later than usual and it’s been this way all week. Ever since I’ve been out of the classroom, I’ve made it a point to be intentional about my days. Working for myself means that my time is organized by me and while it sounds simple, when you’re over 40 and scatter-brained possibly due to perimenopause, time management is a feat.
During the Covid lockdown I was a time management MASTER. I lived on such a structured schedule and I was SO productive, happy, and proud of myself. I spent the last four years in the classroom reminiscing on being at home and getting things done.
Since being out of the classroom now, I manage a little bit but it’s not exactly the same. Here’s why…
My body isn’t the same. I mentioned possibly being perimenopausal for one. I’ve also been living with some conditions that overlap and have taken a toll on my body. For one, I’ve been chronically anemic for my entire life. I’ve been on iron pills, liquid iron, diets that are “high in iron…” I’ve even had a blood transfusion sixteen years ago. Three years ago I found out the real reason for it and I was also told that I will never have a normal hemoglobin level, but there is a sweet spot for me, where I won’t have to be on supplements or receive transfusions, which is how I manage it now. The way to that sweet spot is to have a procedure to attack the other condition. So that’s what I’m preparing for.

One of the things I dealt with while in the classroom was being sick more often than being well. But as a young Black woman one of hardest things to admit to is being sick, being incapable, and needing rest. I knew that I needed more rest in order to get well or at least feel well but so much was required me and to admit “I can’t do that right now because I am sick,” was a cop out. I would be giving in to laziness. I wasn’t persevering. Frankly, it’s embarrassing to admit that I need a little more rest than the average person some days. Why is the truth so embarrassing? Well we know why, and that’s another blog post.

I slept in today because I stayed up late last night to write. I’m no longer 26 and while I can still force myself to run off a few hours sleep, it proves to be risky for me. The first thing I do every morning is walk 1.5-2 miles. I walk the track in my complex or I walk on the treadmill. I like to do it at 7:30am, but today I’ll be down there around 9am, because my body needed more rest this morning and now I’m in the bathroom writing this impromptu blog in the notes app on my phone.

I like to start work at 9am and my adult learning clients know they can generally reach me around that time. I won’t start my actual work until around 10am though and that’s fine. I’m in charge of my time and more of it these days must be used for rest and self-care.

My head is clearer and I’ve been a much better help for both my adult learners and my consulting clients. Since admitting I need rest, and actually resting.

I’m not advising anyone to do what I do, except listen to your body, and be honest with yourself first, then others. Being dishonest landed me in the hospital for a week being pumped with a strangers blood, and for some reason, I still didn’t learn then. Now I’m forced to listen and be honest. Use your sick and personal days PLEASE. I know we like to save them up for vacations—that end up draining us 🤦🏾‍♀️ and this might require you to plan a little and be intentional as well. If you can plan an itinerary for your family for 5 days on an island or water park or ski resort, you can plan to SIT DOWN with a cup of tea. You can plan to meditate. You can plan being silent for most of a day. You can plan to SLEEP and recharge.
I know nowadays we’re saying “rest is resistance,” and all that, and while it’s true and beneficial to know, I can’t lean into that part of it. Right now it’s about me. I need rest because I am no longer choosing to feel uncomfortable and unpleasant for 90% of my day.
I had a coworker that used to turn off the lights in her classroom, close the door and take a nap at her desk. If you peeked into the room you wouldn’t know she was there. I should’ve been doing that, but I wanted to have my lesson plans for the next week prepared already. But then my lesson plans were a mess because… I didn’t rest. See where this is going?
Start simple. If you feel tired, if you feel sick—body aching, nauseous, headaches, sluggish, say out loud to yourself “I don’t feel well.” Hopefully, the next step is to address and not ignore.

Today is my mother’s birthday. Yesterday was my best friend’s birthday. D’Angelo died on my best friend’s birthday. I’ve known my best friend since the fourth grade. We’re now in our fourth decade. You do the math. We were in the seventh grade when our friendship was solidified—like BFF4eva type shit. That’s also the year D’Angelo’s first album came out and was on repeat in my Disc-man.
Diane Keaton died on October 11th, three days before D’Angelo. I loved me some Diane Keaton. She was a funny, and dressing-ass white lady. Like I said, I’m in my fourth decade, and I’ve been thinking a lot about the kind of grown lady I want to be. I have an aunt who dresses like Diane Keaton, and I’ve been working on mimicking their style with my own twist. See, I thought I was Left Eye from TLC from about fourth grade until eighth grade. So I was into the big jeans, large graphic t-shirts, and showing my once-flat tummy. I’m working on the grown lady version of that.
Angie Stone passed in March of this year. She sang one of the hardest heartbreak songs I’ve ever heard--Wish I Didn’t Miss You. I’ve had my heart broken twice, and that song surely aided in my grieving process.
 
She literally sings what my soul was crying:
 
One of these days, it’s gonna happen to you
Missing a love like I’m missing you
 
One of these days, when your dreams come true
That’s the one that’s gonna do it to you
 
I can’t eat, I can’t sleep anymore
Waiting for love to walk through the door
I wish I didn’t miss you anymore
 
Angie Stone is around my mother’s age. (Is, because her spirit lives on.) I was raised by my mother, grandmother, and aunt. Nobody talked about their heartbreaks. Lovers came and went. Some passed away. Some left babies. Nobody said, “My heart is broken. I feel like I can’t eat or sleep.” It was very much, “life goes on,” in my house. So for Angie to sing those words the way she did, they were what I needed to hear and from whom I needed to hear them.
D'Angelo’s rendition of Smokey Robinson’s Crusin’ was my young idea of romance. It’s supposed to be soulful. When he croons “I love it, I love it,” it’s like my heart pauses because whatever that moment was for him, whatever he was feeling, I wanna bottle it up and get inside the bottle with it. I wanna live in that too.
When I got a text message that D’Angelo had passed, I immediately said, “broken heart.” Turns out he had pancreatic cancer. But one of his greatest loves died suddenly and tragically earlier this year. Pancreatic cancer will take someone out quick, and a broken heart will exacerbate any illness.
So, today, a Wednesday, halfway through the week, my mother’s birthday, I am flooded with thoughts of the grown lady I’m working on, and how iconic Black creators that impacted my life and growth, my outlook on love, are now no longer here creating in the flesh. It’s a sadness I acknowledge, but can’t give in to. Thank God my father gave me a Discman, and my aunt and uncle let me borrow CDs for months at a time. Thank God for my family’s love of music, movies, and literature. Thank God for allowing me to be born in the 80s. I still got to experience raw talent.
 
I don’t know if I wanna say rest or sleep in peace. No matter how hard we try, creatives don’t sleep. So, it’s Create In Peace now I guess. Create without pressure. Create without slander. Create without criticism. Create without deadlines. Create in Peace.

​I ignored this phrase.
 
When I got into my relationship, and showed happiness, people would say “Oh you in your ‘Soft Girl Era.’” I didn’t really respond because it was usually in response to what my man does for me. I would think to myself, “But nobody treats me better than I treat me. I been in my Soft Girl Era. I won’t credit him for it.”
 
Today was different though.
 
I’ve always been a semi-tomboy. When I was a teenager, I wore a lot of sweatpants, and sometimes boxers. I loved sneakers. Nike Air Max and Nike Cortez were my thing. I wore other sneakers, but Air Max and Cortez is kinda where I lived. I got into a relationship with some-of-y’all-know-who, and that got shut down. First of all, I had a baby so sneaker shopping just didn’t go the way it used to. Second, what I did get, was surely, feminine. Last, I was literally told “Get rid of the boxers, baggy jeans, and sweat pants. I don’t wanna feel like I’m walking down the street with a twelve year old boy.”
 
So that’s what I did.
 
I wore pink Nike Dunks, low-rise boot cut jeans, with crop tops, and peek-a-boo thongs. *Sigh.* It wasn’t all his fault. Low-rise jeans with your thong showing was the trend at the time. I was also thirty pounds underweight, so oversized clothes would’ve swallowed me anyway. He was the catalyst though.
 
Today, me, the new man, and the bonus kid went to the mall—mostly for her to have a good time. I wasn’t thinking about anything for myself. On the way out of the mall though, he said “Get whatever it is you want or need.”
 
I just looked at him. I didn’t know what he was talking about, where that came from, or where it was leading. “What do you mean?” I asked.
 
“If you need or want something on this floor, get it now,” he said.
 
I pursed my lips. “I thought we were getting something to eat. Like are we going to the food court?”
 
He rolled his eyes. “I just mean anything that you want or need now.”
 
I was still stuck—mostly because I acted like a crab on the way to the mall. So I was thinking, Why would this man buy me anything right now?
 
We had another interesting exchange before entering a store, one I won’t elaborate on because it’ll take this post into a completely different direction about men and their inability to empathize with perimenopause.

And still one more detour...

My daughter has been insisting that I buy Mom-jeans and straight legs. She wears boot cut all the time and I’m like “been there, done that.” But she’s like, “Mom nobody wears skinny jeans as much as you do. You gotta try something else.” So I’ve been eyeing looser jeans and remembering the younger me who loved baggy jeans and oversized t-shirts. In the last few years, sweatsuits, and oversized t-shirts over leggings have become my off-work uniform. I’ve also been back on my sneaker kick, making sure I have a t-shirt, hoodie, or sweatsuit to match every pair.
 
Today, I picked up a pair of Mom-jeans, and three oversized t-shirts. He got them for me. When I got home, I tried on the jeans. I was happy and comfortable, and I felt cute. Comfortable-cute has become my m.o. for every item of clothing I buy. I showed him and he nodded his head with approval—not that I needed it. But you like to think your person thinks you look cute too.
 
I went upstairs to our bedroom after showing him the jeans and spread my t-shirts on the bed. Then the words came to me “Soft girl era.”
 
This is it, I said to myself. Today I feel like I am in my Soft girl era.
 
Why?
 
Not because he bought me stuff. He buys me stuff all the time. This man will get pissed off about something at work, leave the office to soothe himself with retail therapy, and buy me something. So it wasn’t that.
 
He bought me things I liked. Things that are not necessarily feminine. Things that make me and only me happy. There weren’t any stipulations. He knows that sneakers, oversized t-shirts, and sweatpants are my thing. Not once has he said to me, “You look like a boy,” when it came to my tomboy clothes. Do I think he likes them? Eh… In his fantasies he would probably have me wear maxi dresses 24/7, because he has this affinity for "maxi dress wedgies." However he likes when I smile more than anything and all it takes is some t-shirts to match her lil sneakers to make her giddy? Shit, why not?
 
I think a Soft Girl Era is different for everyone. For me, this is it. There aren’t stipulations on the clothes I choose. When we moved in together he didn’t raid my closet and start tossing out what he felt wasn’t feminine enough. My Soft Girl Era is filling my closet with my comfortable clothes--not teacher attire, not sundresses, not booty shorts, not the things that supposedly make you more feminine. I get to show off and feel cute in my cozy clothes, and the atmosphere between us is filled with quiet, cozy content.

I have the wildest dreams. I always have. My friends and I think it’s the reason I write fiction so well—because my imagination goes completely left all on its own without prompting. Sometimes I dream that I’m back in high school and it’s hilarious. I’ll be walking around (Harry S. Truman of The Bronx) frustrated because I don’t remember what classes I have. I try to ease into a class, into the back and go unnoticed. The premise is usually that I took some kind of hiatus. I don’t know why. It’s not like I dropped out of school. I graduated on time and everything.
 
I also dream about my childhood home a lot. I once read that dreaming about places in your past has to do with some part of you that hasn’t grown up. I just turned 42, I’m in my Jackie Robinson year, what part of me hasn’t grown? Anyway, last night I dreamt my family was packing up to move out of my childhood home. We were spending a lot of time in the basement, making sure it was up to par for its new inhabitants. I was also hella-worried about getting married, because apparently I needed to sign my marriage license.
 
Yeah, let’s back up a little…

First of all, I moved out of my childhood home when I was twenty years old. It would take another three years for my grandmother to sell the place. Now maybe the fact that I was slowly eased out that makes it seem like my subconscious is holding onto something. I had my daughter at nineteen, and by the time she was a year old I was spending most of my time at her father’s house. Whenever I would come home, more and more of my little sister’s belongings would be in my room. Finally one day I came to find my stuff packed in a few boxes and my mother told me I was welcome to come back and get my dresser. So I called my uncle (Rastafarian with a van, because they all have a van) to come pick up the dresser for me and take it to my daughter’s father’s house where I resided for the next four years. On the way, my uncle told me he was disappointed that I had a child so young and that I was going to live with my daughter’s father permanently, but he was at least glad that I had a high school diploma and was in college. I was kind of a jewel to my uncle, so to hear that I did something that disappointed him stuck with me.
 
Fast forward though…

​Last night’s dream was not only bugged out, but it seemed to drag on longer than a normal dream. We kept making trips between my old basement and the neighbor’s basement. My siblings and I grew up close to our neighbors and homes were almost identical except for a few minor details. In the dream I kept comparing the basements and at some point I realized my neighbors had passed away some time ago, and I wondered why it was my family’s responsibility to do whatever it was we were doing in their basement, when they had mad kids. Dreams are something else, aren’t they?
 
On to this marriage license…

​A few things—if you know me personally, you know I am skeptical about marriage. I’m a Gemini, have to be able to make decisions for myself regardless of what the next person says or thinks. I’ve been in a relationship for three years now, and while it might look like we just be vibing on the outside, I’ve probably made a conscious decision that morning to listen, put myself in his shoes, and compromise. On top of being an Gemini, I’ve been single and independent since I left my daughter’s father in 2007. You do the math, and if you know me personally, you’re welcome to subtract the fuck-boys along the way. None of them added value to my life or were about me the way this man is now. (I’m the writer, this my story.) I said all that to say, listening, making an effort to comprehend other viewpoints, and compromising don’t come easy to me. Being single and a mother (not a single mother, co-parent was/is hella-active) just makes you in charge of everything, and I did that for thirteen years. While I love my man down, signing a marriage license is terrifying, because what? He gets to be in charge too? What was even crazier in the dream was that I couldn’t remember my man’s name. It was absolutely insane. I kept saying, “Wait, who am I marrying?” And my family kept getting mad like, “Bitch, your fiancée! Sign the got damn paper so we can move on.” At one point I went down a list of male names in my head, and when I finally remember my man’s name, I was overwhelmed with this deep feeling of love I have for him, that if I were awake, probably would’ve caused me to cry uncontrollably. In the dream though I said, “Oh yes! That’s him! Oh my God, I love him so much! He’s like my best friend, he’s one of my favorite people, like in the top two! I would love to marry him, but do I have to sign the paper?”
 
Crazy.

Eventually we left my childhood home, and I was suddenly here at my current apartment. A bunch of high school friends were down at my building’s pool, and I headed down to join them. I changed into a swimsuit, snapped my clip-on shades to my prescription glasses, grabbed a pool towel and wandered around the pool looking for my old classmates. It was crowded. Finally I found them at the 5 feet end, where I usually don’t venture because I’m only 5’2, but I figured I could brave it for a little while. There was a white lesbian couple right next to my group and instead of me saying “excuse me,” to get by them, I latched on to the bigger one’s neck saying “You won’t mind if I use you to get over here,” and swung myself towards my friends. Why is that an important detail? Because I would nevaaaa! I think the lady in my dream was my neighbor. The fact that it’s unclear to me makes her a stranger and I do not touch strangers! So finally, I’m sitting with my friends, fighting for my life to keep my head above water and I realize the clip on is making everything too damned dark. I take it off and for what? Because it’s still just as dark. It’s then that I realize I attached the clip on the a pair of cat-eye sunglasses. Weird af.
 
I think I woke up after that.

Nowadays, thanks to social media, there is so much being said about The Bronx that, in my opinion, isn’t completely accurate, or at least not for the entire Bronx. The main thing is that people are under the impression that there are no nice areas of The Bronx, that everyone and everything in The Bronx is dirty, that there are no safe areas in The Bronx. Now I’m a Black woman of small stature, there isn’t a place on earth that is 100% safe to me. However, I can point out the areas that I feel safer in than others. I can also point out areas where the sidewalks and stores are clean. Where people are actually taking care of their community.
I recently moved to a “borough” in Jersey, outside of Hackensack so my commute to my job in The Bronx has changed significantly. When I lived and worked in The Bronx, I noticed the difference between my neighborhood and where my job is because gradually my neighborhood has become like the one where my job is. I couldn’t wait to get to that certain part of Tremont Ave where things seemed to calm down.
One day in September after parking in the job parking lot, I got out of my car and took a breath. There seemed to be a stench in the air. Later, I stepped out of work to go to the store and smelled the same stench. I said to my best friend later, “Is it me or does The South Bronx stink? I mean like, did it always stink or is it just starting to stink?”
She said, “Both. It was stink before and now its getting worse. It’s more noticeable.”
Lately, I dread walking down the street near my job more than I did before. It smells, the sidewalks look filthy… and then the people. I feel horrible for saying this because I am well aware of the affects of poverty and drugs. I lived through the crack era. But damn, the people in The South Bronx depress me. Everybody looks like the Gross Sisters from The Proud Family.
For a while I was afraid the North Bronx would be subject to the same deterioration of the South. I get the feeling that those who own the private homes, 2-6 family units, and tenements are not going to let that happen. There’s also the development of the Metro North station in Parkchester. In fact, let me take a moment to talk about Parkchester. I’m not sure where people get it from that Parkchester is a project or NYCHA community. Initially, after the Civil War, part of Parkchester was an orphanage for misplaced children. Later, in 1938, that land and a great deal more was bought by Met Life, and by the early 1940s families began to move into newly built condominiums. White families, that is. Black people were not allowed in until around 1968. My own family was able to rent a two-bedroom condo in the North sometime in the 1970s. They left at the end of 1983, shortly after I was born, because the two-bedrooms would no longer suffice for my grandmother, her husband, her two almost-adult daughters, me, and a dog. While I was growing up, in the 80s and early 90s, Parkchester was a coveted place to live. The parks were and still are, pretty. The home that my grandmother bought wasn’t too far from there and so my mother could still take me for walks in the area. I loved the fountain and begged to swim in it because I thought the water was blue… the fountain is just painted blue on the inside though. I asked my mother why people threw pennies in the swimming pool. She explained, “It’s not a pool,” she explained. “It’s a fountain. People throw pennies in to make wishes.” Well why did she tell me that? I went from begging to frolic in the copper polluted water to begging for more change to throw in it. As a teenager, I did what my mother did when she was a teenager—I hung out at the park in the West. That’s when the neighborhood started to get a little shaky. Gangs seeped in and Parkchester started seeing it’s fair share of “hood crime.”

Still, when I was in my twenties and friends bought or rented condos there, particularly in the North, Parkchester wasn’t the worst place to be. It wasn’t until after the pandemic in 2020, when I rented from a friend in the North that I started to see the deterioration for myself. The first week I moved in, I was on the elevator. A woman got on with her dog. I made a joke about having puppy fever, and she said, “Well you can’t have a dog here unless its a service or emotional support dog.”
I nodded, assuming her dog was for emotional support. It clearly wasn’t a service dog.
“You renting or you own here?” she asked.
“Uhh… renting from family,” I stated. “Oh. Then it might not be a big deal for you. They treat owners and renters differently here.” Her voice became resentful.
After that, she barely spoke to me when she saw me. For months, until more things opened back up in NYC, Parkchester maintenance was what I considered top notch. They cleaned the buildings at the same time every day from top to bottom. When I went back to work in person in 2021, it all stopped. People were urinating in the staircases and packing the trash chutes with way too much trash. It was crazy. I had never experienced living in NYCHA, but I felt like I was getting a taste for the three years I remained there. They broke ground for the new Metro North station directly after I moved out. Parking was already an issue in the area, and the gain of the train station meant the loss of an entire parking lot that most of the working community relied on. I was glad to get away, but I’m continuously curious about the possible improvements of the area, thanks to the train station.
Anyway, I’m not saying all this this to drag The South Bronx, but I do want to say this — there is a difference between the North and South Bronx. Honestly though, I wish there was something that could be done about The South Bronx. I know that there isn’t necessarily anything to be done because it starts with the mindset of the people who inhabit it. They can’t be forced to care if they don’t know that they should or that there’s a better way of living. All I got left is prayer.
Like the title of the blog, these are just my random thoughts. I post for commentary. If you’re from The Bronx or ever lived there, do you know the difference between the north and south? The east and the west? Have you experienced the slow decline, or was it always a raggedy hot mess to you? I’m curious to know what everyone else’s experience is. The way I see it, the bad parts have leaked into the good, but only where the community wasn’t strong enough to stop it. I think there will continue to be a distinct difference between the north and south, and I wish other’s knew about the differences before opening their mouths about it.

Fight or Flight??? That’s exactly how I felt the morning after the election on the drive to work. How can I join the fight? Or should I just run away?

We sleep with the tv on and I don’t think my boyfriend realizes how sound affects me in my sleep. I prefer the tv on for background noise, but I needs to be good sounds. Trump’s voice is never a good sound for me, especially in my sleep. I literally shuddered and cried when I heard him cheering for his win. I’ve been physically uncomfortable and crabby all day.

The truth of this election is this: this is the second time it’s been proven that this country hates women. While yes, white women are put on a pedestal, it’s an unstable one. The vengeance for white women’s tears is the protection and upholding of white male masculinity and patriarchy. It has nothing to do with the white man’s love for white women. It is about his selfishness and love for himself.

Let’s consider the early history of this country. We all know the land was stolen, and it wasn’t stolen by white women. It was stolen by white men. White women were just along for the benefit of companionship, bedmates, and breeding. Look at where things are going today. Women of all races, ethnicities, and cultures have strayed away from this ideology as the end-all be-all for their lives, for different reasons. It appears as though the white man cannot handle a woman, of any race, ethnicity, or cultural background, being his peer, better yet being more qualified than him for something. Do I think all men are like this? No. But I do think it’s more prominent in white men and feel like this was a blatant display of my theory.

Black women took this loss hard, and to that I say I feel you, but again this really isn’t our battle. Keep in mind, there are African countries that are paying people to move there. Now, I haven’t checked out all the pros and cons, if I choose to leave the country, I won’t be going to Africa or Europe, but I’m just putting it out there. While we’re concerned about our rights being taken away, my concerns are back on the bigger picture same as in 2016… this country is WIDE open for takedown. It’s not like Trump, at minimum, is a critical thinker. We don’t have a chess player headed to office. This is not someone who is for the country. This is someone who is out for self, and he used the undereducated to solidify his get out of jail free card.

This country is once again, a joke, and that’s my honest deep down fear. We are Tubi up against Disney Plus, Max, Netflix, and Hulu, because who is going to take us seriously? Anyway, all I can do is suggest we consider all of our options and look that way. We tried to save a country that has us at the bottom of the totem pole. What’s left?
​
I don’t consider myself politically versed enough to criticize another’s decisions and choices under these circumstances. I know what will have to be done for me and mine, should the hammer truly come down. In the meantime, it’s about to be another freak show. Save your money and get your popcorn ready.