Dating Chronicles: The Black Mormon

I wrote a book y’all. I told my sister about it and she said, “Girl, you NEED to write a book about your dating experiences!” All I could do is shake my head and say, “Girllllllll, I can’t even.”

“Why?” you ask. Well, because my dating life is pretty typical of that of a young woman in America… pretty fucking depressing. There is nothing unique happening here but all the same, it is painful. These days, young people go through the dating world thinking, “Is this real life? This can’t be real life!” Oh, but it is.

I’ve been in two long term relationships in my life. I call that accumulation of seven years the years of blissful ignorance. I was protected by my respected boo thangs; I had no idea of the dating horrors, the horrors, I tell you!

So, because I’m strong enough to laugh at myself (or at least strong enough to front like this shit is funny) I’m somewhat answering my sister’s call and not writing a book about my dating experiences but posting some blogs about the madness instead. Let the Dating Chronicles commence!

First Up: The Black Mormon

The title alone should cause pause. What the hell is a Black Mormon? Yep, they exist. Did you know Black people weren’t even ALLOWED to be Mormons until the 70s????? Pretty sure that’s a thing…like, a fact. Anyway, not the point. Just adds to the weirdness.

So, I’m in college…maybe a sophomore, yeah a sophomore. I’m in between the two big relationships in my life and I’m living it up! I’m dating for the first time in my life (the first relationship was just sorta instant and we were super young. There was no "dating") and I’m loving it! I meet a Black guy that’s kinda quirky. He’s into old movies that I thought only I alone on the planet have seen, he plays guitar and he’s got big, curly hair! He’s different; he sticks out; he’s not annoyingly macho like all the football players; he’s great!

He asks me to “hang out” which is as official as dating gets in college. We walk around the main streets of our little college town. We stop for ice cream. From the conversation I start to pick up on his weirdness. He tells me he can’t eat strawberry ice cream because it terrifies him. I laugh, thinking I’m just joining in on his laughter because that MUST be a joke. It’s not, apparently. He’s not laughing. I brush it off and keep on keeping on because his muscles bulge through a his t-shirt soooooo, forgiven.

We come across a book store and he jumps, yes, jumps, in glee and asks if we can go inside. I say, “Hell yeah!" I like books.

Thirty minutes later, we’re still in the bookstore… he hasn’t spoken one word to me. His nose is stuck in a book on guitar chords…a book that I would assume isn’t that interesting or helpful without a guitar in your hands. Boy, was I wrong. His face looks serious. Then he smiles, he laughs, I swear to God at one point he looks like he’s about to cry, all due to this riveting book on chords. No narrative, just chords. Thirty minutes of me staring at him staring at chords. 

This is when I realize, okay, the cute weirdo might be a legit weirdo.

Finally, he speaks to me! He picks up a book of poetry, spontaneously losing interest in his chords and swiftly moving on to a brick-sized book of poems.

He turns to me and says, “I’m going to read you a poem.”

The first words he’s spoken to me the entire time we’ve been in the bookstore.

I offer up a hesitant, “Alright.”

The poem is long, like, really fucking long. He takes about ten minutes to complete the thing. That’s a long time in recitation!

Finally, he’s done! He looks up at me, searching my face for my reaction to the piece (that I 100% didn’t follow). I give him nothing because well, I have no idea what he just said and have nothing to give. Then he asks, “Would you like to read one?”

I’m a bit appalled but most of all just suuuuper uncomfortable. I politely decline.

I’m thinking he’s picking up on my discomfort and he offers to take me home. Wahoo!!!!

We get back to my place and "watch a movie". The typical term used before Netflix was invented.

Ok, I know. I know. How am I about to have sex with the weirdo? I’m in college, single, not doing shit…I really don’t know what else to say. Plus, he wore the super tight white t-shirt and I felt like a pink lady about to get it on with Danny. How does a girl say no to that?

We watch the movie, I snuggle up under his arm and inhale the cologne that fills the room with every rise and fall of his chest. I tilt my head and look up at him, making my move.

He pauses the film and I think, “Oh, hell yeah.

He pauses the film to turn to me, look deep into my eyes and explain to me that he’s a good Mormon, will do anything to please his God.

My soul thinks, “Ugh, I should be like you.”

My vagina screams, “#&*^#*#&**@”

He continues with his religious diatribe. I look deep into his eyes, listen intently and nod periodically, letting him know I completely understand. We are on the same page. 100%

Our religious guilt shortened our sexcapade to a mere thirty minutes of boning as opposed to the all night workout I was hoping for. But I was alright with it. The muscles were big, the who-ha was thick, I was satisfied. My weirdo, Black Mormon had done a body good!

The next morning, I wake up with a Black Mormon sitting at the edge of my bed, reading my bible. I shuffle and he realizes I’m awake.

With spirit he grabs my hand and exclaims, “Thank God you’re awake! Come, pray with me. I can’t handle the guilt!”

And then came the tears. 

Breaking Up With William

“You realize you’re crazy, right?”

“Why am I crazy? Just because I’m fabricating outrageous stories for a chance to connect with the man I’m desperately in love with?”

“Please tell me that’s rhetorical.”

 “The stories aren’t even that outrageous. They’re things that could totally be happening to me.”

“Yeah, but they’re not.”

“But they could.”

“But they’re not.”

“I know they’re not, but…”

“You, an intern, are asking Devin, the Head of the entire Marketing Department, for relationship advice on this ‘whirlwind love affair’ you’re having with all of these ups and downs, twists and turns, where you’re over the moon one day and distraught the next because Devin is the ‘only man you know that can give you the guy’s perspective on exactly what you should do’ except Devin doesn’t know, and will probably never know, that your torrid love affair with ‘William’ doesn’t exactly exist because William himself doesn’t actually exist.  And this all seems like a perfectly logical plan on how to get a guy to notice you?”

“Of course!”

“Are you insane?”

“It’s innovative dating. A girl’s got to have an angle.”

“It’s not innovative. It’s tired and trite. You’re trying to get a guy to like you by making him feel jealous and threatened by what in actuality amounts merely to an imaginary friend. You’re trying to play this ‘angle’ where you treat Devin like he’s nothing more than a gay best friend or a shoulder to cry on, naturally making him fall in love with you and wish with all of his might that you pined away after him like you do with William. Men, women, everyone, they’ve been doing this shit for years but they never stop to think about what happens when the truth comes out and you’re seen as nothing more than a pathetic liar who’s actually not valuable at all because it’s actually YOU that’s delivering those flowers to your desk at work and giving yourself those hickies that you desperately ‘try to hide’ and then not only does he only see you as a friend, or you know, JUST THE INTERN, which was the case all along because your stupid plan was never working, he will NOW see you as a stalkerish, deranged pest that’s so childish and desperate for a date that he couldn’t possibly speak to you ever again…like ever, for the safety of himself and his future family. I mean, how is he supposed to explain the psycho stalker girl from his past to his future wife? Ain't nobody got time for that!”

“Um, harsh!”

“Well, it’s true!”

“Look, listen to me, alright. Just listen. This can work. My plan is solid, completely tight. I’ve been talking to Devin about all of my issues with William for weeks now but this is the next step. It’s the most important step.”

“What is the most important step?”

“Don’t be facetious. I’m being serious.”

“Apologies. The important step.”

“William and I are breaking up this weekend.”

“That’s the step?”

“Yes, the most important step. I’ll come in to work on Monday, run straight into Devin’s office and dive deep into every heartbreaking detail of my break up with William. His face will light up. He’ll think, ‘Here’s my chance. She’s so sad. She’s like a cute little puppy. She’s vulnerable. She’s single!’ and then boom, BOOM! He’ll practically pounce on me right then and there but he won’t; he won’t because he’s a gentleman and respects me. Instead, he’ll be coy. He’ll act as if he’s taking pity on me, really feeling sorry for my sorrows…”

“Oh, there will definitely be sorrow.”

“…and he’ll sigh deeply and pause. In his mind he’ll keep reminding himself not to smile too wide, not to allow his pulsing love to reveal itself on his face. He’ll have so many emotions to control! He’ll be so incredibly nervous because he’s about to do it. He’s finally about to make his move. It will be glorious. He’ll look up at me and say, ‘Ok, look, I’ve been there. It hurts. Breakups are just awful, I mean, the absolute worst.’ He’ll grow in courage and in undesirable urge to touch me. He’ll take my hand and say, ‘Why don’t you let me buy you a drink. You look like you could use a drink. You look like a beautiful girl that was dumped by an absolute jerk and could use a drink.’”

“No.”

“No?”

“Make it so you’re the one that broke up with William. Don’t be too pathetic.”

“You’re right. He’ll take my hand and say, ‘You know what, you were always too good for William. Good for you for finally taking action and dumping that loser. You shouldn’t even be upset by this breakup. You should be celebrating. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to take you out for a drink. That’s right, a celebratory drink because damn it, you deserve it.’ My eyes will light up and I’ll sniffle away my fake tears and give him that smile, you know the one. I’ll say, ‘You know what? You’re right. This was a great idea. Breaking up with William is the smartest thing I’ve done all year and it’s already October! I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Sir. Let’s get a drink.’ And that’s when he’ll smile, you know the one, and he’ll think, ‘Got her,’ without even realizing I, I in fact, I am the one that just got him. It will be glorious!”

“Damn it.”

“What?”

“You just might be right.”

“I mean, duh!”

“It’s still totally pathetic but I can’t help but fully support your crazy. You got this.”

‘I mean, duh!”

        *****

“Well, how did it go? Did he buy it!?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“See, I knew that bitch was crazy.”

Pillars of Sand

He told me I am blessed.

That I do have a strong foundation.

Two of the most important pillars to stand upon: God and Family.

The words of encouragement instantly make me cry as these two entities slowly but surely drain from my life.

God, already gone. Family close behind.

I ask myself what’s left.

Love.

There is always love.

I seek love, yearn for it. It often escapes me.

Life without God is hard.

I’m agnostic.

Not by choice.

If it were up to me I’d bask in His glory with hands raised and heart open once again and always.

I’d always have someone there.

A listening ear, a constant comfort, the greatest force worthy of all worship, a frickin’ god that I'd be lucky enough to call my best friend.

I loved it.

I miss it.

But my brain gets in the way.

The silence he gives me outweighs the comforting presence I myself created.

Family.

It’s hard when you have family but no rock. No constant shoulder.

The support is there but so are the mistakes.

He tells me he’s always going to be there for me while he is awful to her.

Delusional of his overwhelmingly crushing crimes.

And the others are busy. Rightfully busy with their busy lives.

Hate to complain.

Hate to need.

Refuse to ask.

These pillars he credits to me are nothing but pillars of sand.

They sink swiftly, transform to quicksand and I drown.

My rock.

My strength.

Nothing but pillars of sand.  

Getting To Know You... Ok, Me.

I was once told the secret to success is obsessive, relentless persistence. I struggle not to call bullshit.

As a teenager, my dream was to be an actor and I didn’t really see it as a dream, more like, what was going to happen. I rejected my parents’ foolish talk of backup plans because backup plans were for non-believers and at fifteen years old, trust me, I believed in myself. I had the typical insecurities about boys, my weight, my skin, blah, blah, blah but when it came to my future, when it came to acting, well there was no question. I’d be an actress, I’d win an Oscar, and then I’d win another. Believing in my dream was the easy part. What I failed to realize was the work it would take to get there.

My biggest distraction was sex, maybe not sex but, this longing to experience everything, especially love and intimacy. I was raised by two strict, Caribbean parents that kept me on the shortest leash possible so I put all of my energy into breaking free. The energy was misplaced to say the least. Instead of focusing on goals that would propel me forward, I looked for adventure that would let me escape, even if only for a moment.

So, I went out and I got me some! First kiss at fifteen, first real boyfriend at sixteen, virginity lost at sixteen and then boom, first baby born at seventeen. For most, the dreaming would stop there but luckily for me, my teenage delusion was strong. I thought, “A kid? That’s alright, now I’ll just have a sidekick to accompany me to the top!” (In all honesty, I was freaking the fuck out…I could write about one hundred posts about being sixteen and pregnant and they’d all be filled with pure horror… but I still knew I’d reach my goal, simply because I wanted to).

Life marched on. My relationship ended, another began and boy did I just KNOW that this one was it! My childlike sense of invincibility didn’t dissipate until I was well into adulthood. It wasn’t until my second baby came along at twenty-three that I knew my dream was dead. Of course I could still do everything necessary to become an actress but to me that meant being a bad mother, putting my needs before theirs and that wasn’t an option, not then, not now, not ever.

I experienced a deep depression after my second son was born. It wasn’t post-partum; it had nothing to do with having a baby (in fact my second child has always given me a sense of peace…another blog for another day) but soon after having him I realized that I put my greatest dream to rest in order to fight for this picture of a family that wasn’t going to happen. My relationship with his father crumbled in as much of a whirlwind as it was created and the one thing I had a passion for was no longer a viable life choice. Depression doesn’t begin to describe the darkness of that time. I was in my mid-twenties, two kids, on my own, at a daily funeral for any hope for the future.

I learned to stop dreaming. In fact, I avoided it. I didn’t set goals; hell, I didn’t even make to-do lists. The real, tangible option of failure was too overwhelming. I can’t fail if I don’t try. That was my mastered motto. I worked a day job, I focused on my kids and I cringed any time anyone asked me about a five-year plan. I’d protect my heart by never wanting anything again. As long as my kids were okay, screw any personal desires. That mess just got me in trouble anyway.

But.

That can only last for so long. I’m creative. I’m driven. I’m hard working. I knew as a teenager that I was meant to shine. At that age it was this naïve sense of invincibility, the feeling that life would happen the way I wanted it to just because I wanted it to and nothing bad would happen to me or get in my way because well, nothing ever had before.

The perfect recipe for failure: Naivety+Talent+Entitlement.

But the tables have turned.   Now I’m in a place where I’m not itching to shine but to share, share my stories, my experiences and oh hell, shine a little bit too, to be an unapologetic and fearless writer. Remember what it felt like to be fearless? God, I envy children. I’m terrified because this time I’m enlightened to the possibility of failure. Failure is likely. I know I have the work ethic and the resilience to make my dreams come true, but now I’m scared, scared that even if I do work my ass off the dream may still not come true. I hear the teachings that I can do anything, any fucking thing I put my mind to and my gut reaction is, “Yeah, maybe”. I doubt because I’ve lost a dream before, a dream that I loved more than anything in this world.

But the thing is…I didn’t put the work into that dream. I got distracted. Life kicking me in the ass? Ninety percent of those flesh wounds were self-inflicted. Maybe I can try again and do it differently this time. Maybe this time I can stay focused and make it happen.

So here I am, taking a leap of faith. I want to be a writer. I still want to act but I’ll wait for my babies to be full-grown before I pursue that again. They still come first. But in the meantime, I want to write and write and write. I wrote a novel that I love and am excited to put out into the world. I’m going to share some of it here along with my other writings. My stories are short and sweet and dirty and sometimes bizarre. I like them and hope you will too. I need to combine my teenage assuredness with my adult work ethic and make this happen. Do I believe that my dreams will come true if I’m obsessively, relentlessly persistent? Is that really the secret to success? I guess there’s only one way to find out.