Women's March

It must feel so good to have so many allies. 

I know your struggle. Hell, I live your struggle. 

I am a woman.

And it's hard to write this. It feels divisive because please believe me when I say I appreciate every pair of feet that marched today.

Unfortunately, it's hard for my heart to not hurt just a little.

When I was crying at work after the umpteenth shooting and you couldn't REALLY understand why. 

When you gave me an awkward pat on the back and didn't know what to say.

When you told me my Facebook posts about equality were pointless "white noise" but today my feed is flooded with pictures of white women taking a stand for themselves "and others".

When you ignorantly displayed micro-aggression after micro-aggression towards me then cried when Trump was elected. 

When you gently asked me if I perhaps misunderstood when I told you my interactions with police but today the entire fucking world stands with you. 

Millions marching for the precious white female. 

Yes, I know it was done for more than just that demographic. 

Yes, I know a lot of these people that marched today also take a stand for others, have been a part of the struggle since before I was born.

But when I see the protests for those young black boys, I can't help but notice the crowds are overwhelmingly brown.

Now, this orange man threatens the privileges of our precious white queens and they fear they will receive the same treatment we've endured for centuries?  

Now the world must stand? 

Now we must make noise?

I hate to sound divisive. 

We have the common goal of equality and freedom. 

We absolutely have the same enemy of the white supremacist patriarchy.

But why weren't you outraged when it was just me and my black boys at risk?

Why were you awkwardly supportive but unsure of what to say?

Why were my tears nothing but white noise that clearly made you uncomfortable but you can't stop screaming about the rights of your pussy today?

My heart can't help but hurt a little.

Even in our solidarity, you make my place clear.

My life is my problem. Your reproductive health is our problem, the world's problem.

I appreciate you coming along. I appreciate you standing up. I hate that you had to be personally threatened to get the fucking message. I hate that that's how it works nine times our of ten.

I stand with you.

I love your tenacity and strength. I love your solidarity that I know for many of you has always been there.

But when I see the millions, when I see the sea of people marching now that they've been touched personally, now that their white mothers and wives and daughters have experienced a mere fragment of our reality...

Well, I hate to be divisive but...

My heart can't help but hurt a little. 

On Being a Teen Mom...at 30.

When you're a teen mom at thirty, you feel like a teen mom again: completely out of place. Your friends are now catching up and having babies of their own but they're not really "catching up", are they? They're doing it at the right time. You were the one who clearly got it wrong.

Your friends talk about formula and breast feeding and what stroller to buy while you research "How to Get a 12 Year Old Through Puberty" on your own. 

You realize this will always be the case. You will always be the odd mom out. Hell, you always have been. You will always be at the wrong stage of your own goddamn life. 

Your pregnant friends will ask you if it's weird to have a different last name than your child's. They ask because they are beautiful, bad ass feminists that never took their husband's last name. Clearly, not the reason why my child and I do not have the same last name. His was never offered to me with a promise and a ring. 

I tell them not to worry about it. They are married. They belong to a family unit. Their different last name is a minor detail that doesn't take from the legitimacy of their family. Alright, so I just say, "No, it's not weird".

When you're a teen mom at thirty, you're reminded that you did it wrong, out of order, too quickly. Your friends are engaged married, expecting, mothers of toddlers and you're still trying to survive, trying to fit in, knowing you never will. 

Am I grateful to not be changing diapers? Absolutely. I am looking to get married and start all over the "right way"? Hell to the no. I love my child. I realize my blessings but there's just something about being a teen mom at thirty that makes you feel well, like a teen mom again. You watch them do it the right way, unable to stop the thoughts that you clearly did it wrong. 

The Fool

I was the fool. 

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

She invites me to the movies. Foolishly I oblige. 

She smiles that smile so sweet. The one strangers can't help but comment on. Compliments that ignite the sparkle in her eye. The blush in her cheek. 

Little does she know, it's that very smile that tightens my chest, that twists the knife.

But I can't blame her.

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends.

We sit close. We have no choice. 

In the darkness I smell the lavender and orange in her hair. I hear the song of her breath. I feel the warmth of her presence. 

Little does she know, it's that very smell of lavender and orange that causes my tears, it's that poetic rise and fall of her breath that rebuilds my wall. It's that exact warm presence that ignites the match that inflames my courage to love again. 

But I can't blame her. 

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

We walk out together, not hand in hand, not side by side. The streets are busy and she's a little ahead. 

We stop at her car and she hugs me.

She's a villainous murderer. Me, her latest victim. How could she intend to do anything but kill me? 

Doesn't she know what a hug does to me? A mere brush of her skin against mine sends me spiraling down into anxious despair, so why the fuck would she hug me?

She knows better. 

I can blame her.

I do blame her.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends but she should fucking know better. She should know that shit ain't possible. She should know better than to smile like that and smell like that and breathe like that and emit that goddamn, fucking glow. 

No.

No.

I can't blame her. God, how I want to blame her but I can't.

It's not her fault. 

I was the fool.

I was the fool that said we could still be friends. 

I was the fool that fell.