Recently, a friend of mine (who runs a blog here on WordPress about her adventures in coding and faith) reminded me that I had never recounted, on my blog, the tales of my adventure in Europe last Spring. Why is that? Well, part of the reason is because I experienced a great deal of heartbreak during that trip. I was in a foggy haze after I got back home and the last thing I felt like doing was reliving my ordeal. One year later and I just may be ready talk about it. I hope my memory doesn’t fail me.
At the end of 2014, Sony was hit with an anonymous hack bomb. Many great things came out of the email hack including detailed accounts of gender inequality. Hackers exposed the dirty laundry of Hollywood movie execs and just how well or not so well they treat talent. We learned that Hollywood is just as screwed up as, if not more than, the rest of us. A tale as old as time men get paid more than women even when those women are doing just as much work as the men.
I fought the urge to say sorry today and won.
It was difficult but when you consider the amount of times women say sorry for no reason, it’s ridiculous. We say sorry when we talk too much. Sorry when we tell someone to do their job. Sorry when we don’t make sense.
I’m not talking about saying sorry for bumping into someone or saying sorry for making a mistake, I mean apologizing for getting the job done before someone else or for “sounding confusing”. These aren’t valid reasons to say the word “sorry”.
You don’t have to make yourself small to gain respect, especially in the workplace. I model my career ambitions after my mother’s. She may have her flaws but if there’s one thing I respect about my mother it is her work manner. She is a boss. Both literally speaking and Beyoncé-speaking. In “Who Run the World” Beyoncé croons “strong enough to bare the children, then get back to business.” That describes my mother to a T. She’s the woman who will enter into any new work environment and kill it. She can command a diverse room of both male and female employees without hesitation. She can tell you what you aren’t doing right and what you’re doing well in the same sentence. She can effectively and efficiently follow protocol without skipping a beat, all while looking fabulous. And one thing my mother does not tolerate is disrespect, neither in the home nor the workplace. So whenever I make a decision I consider what would she do in this moment, what would she think of me? She wouldn’t bend over backwards that’s for damn sure.
Resisting the urge to apologize was one of the hardest thing I had ever done (I actually sat here and retyped an email several times before sending it out). I was so afraid of not being considered polite that I didn’t care if someone was falsely accusing me of incompetency. When I weighed the situation against itself I decided that having my work ethic come into question for no reason was more important than apologizing. In the end the recipient was pleased with my response and I even got some congrats, too.
I grew up in a sheltered one-parent home on Long Island. My mother was a first generation American who struggled with the desire to preserve her culture while also attempting to raise two strong-willed, young women. How does one teach her daughters to be proud Haitian-Americans in an American world when Haitians are naturally conservative and American ideals run the way of left thinking?
June 2012, I cut my hair. I didn’t just get a regular trim or bob cut, I completely took my hair off and started rocking nappy coils on my head. Up until this point, my head was always adorned in either Moesha-style, butt-grazing single braids or super shiny Japanese looking, shoulder length wigs and way back when I even rocked a jerry curl. You remember the jerry curl, right? That wet curly look made famous by Lionel Richie. I had done so much to my hair that when I look back at pictures now I can’t even believe I was brave enough to leave my house. I was the very definition of a train wreck.
Fast forward to the the summer of 2012, I had made the life changing decision of drastically altering how I would physically present myself to the world. This decision hadn’t come easily as if by the snap of two fingers. No, this was all thanks to the internet or should I say Al Gore, who invented the internet? The internet opened the door for me to experience the world of natural beauty as fashioned by black women. I discovered with a few clicks of my mouse that there were options for my hair other than miserably failing to mask the texture I had been blessed with. I spent hours scrolling through images of beautiful black women sporting beautiful nappy, kinky, curly, coily looks. And whenever I came across a picture of a black girl smiling proudly up at the camera with her chocolate coated crown of spirally kinks, I thought why not me? Why couldn’t I do the same? The thickness, the shape and the length, natural hair screamed health and encouraged me to take leap a faith. “Come on, do it brown girl!” said the queen with the beautiful sun kissed curls poking out freely from every angle on her head.
For as long as I can remember, I had felt ashamed of the texture of my hair. Every six weeks I headed to the Dominican salon to get my kitchen and edges straightened out so that the wig I wore looked natural. Yes that was me on a Saturday with $65 in hand waiting eagerly by the hair dryers for my name to be called for my scalp to be scratched, scraped and burned all for the sake of a straight ‘do. And this was tradition, a rite of passage for young Black American women. Was I really giving this up?
I’ll never forget the first time I went back to the Dominican salon after my big chop with my hair all nappy and short the stylist took one look at my head then closed her eyes in exasperation. She tried to coax me into getting a relaxer but I straightened my back and held on tightly to the armrests of my chair in defiance and replied: “No. This is how I’m wearing my hair now.” Elevated by my groundbreaking decision to choose the new alternative Black lifestyle showed in my attitude, walk and speech. I had refused to conform once and this somehow led to me refusing to conform in other areas too.
As a Haitian-American girl I was raised to believe that my having been born into an immigrant family gave me an irrefutable sense of culture not shared by those with a similar complexion. The girl on the uptown bound 1 train may be just the same color as I am but because she was American she was somehow different from me. She had no culture, no history and therefore no sense of self which was why she wasn’t like me. Because of this strict ideology I grew up trying to distance myself from Black American culture. I refused to “talk ghetto”, I refused to admit I liked fried chicken and most importantly of all I didn’t dress “Black” even if I really liked a particular dress. Dressing “Black” entailed tight clothing, loud jewelry and colorful hair. My mother never prescribed to the belief that a woman had to be flashy to get attention. But she didn’t have to, my mother always commanded attention because of her regality, beauty and poise.
Looking back I can’t believe I ever felt that way about the parts of Black American culture that make us beautiful. Now I adorn my hair with flashy colors and bold styles without hesitation. I dress as I please even if it may come off “ghetto” because it’s a look I have come to admire. Yes, I have come to admire the very style I felt obligated to isolate from myself. I guess everything does eventually come full circle.
When does the daydreaming stop?
What age do we become who we ought to be,
Want to be,
Hope to be.
When does the wondering cease and the manifestation begin?
Have dreams no mercy upon the dreamer?
No remorse for the victim?
Forever we chase, forever we lose
Of dreams we have, never ever to choose
(C) JasmineSkyy Forcer 2015
I made the mistake of starting Orange is the New Black in the middle of wrapping up my summer semester. BIG big mistake. I’m addicted. It has completely sidetracked me as I managed to watch 8 episodes before I finally cut myself off. Last week, I challenged myself to set and complete a short list of goals. I was to blog twice on Some Like It Thrift, blog once here, learn origami and hang out with my friends. I ended up completely all except the origami one. Needless to say, origami is officially coming off being that this is the millionth time I’ve set this particular goal.
Despite the fact that I failed to learn the art of paper folding, I did accomplish a few things I hadn’t out on my list. I submitted two articles to two different websites. This isn’t like me at all because usually fear takes over me and I hold myself back. I hold myself back because I’m afraid of rejection or failing in general. I usually have no idea what I’m doing because I don’t want to go down a path that may lead nowhere so I just sort of circle around with no real direction. But not this past week! This past week I actually stepped outside of my comfort zone and sought out some opportunities that would push me towards my goals. It’s new and exciting territory for me.
I’ll make a post once the two articles I submitted get approved or not.
Let’s see how it all goes.
Online dating can be a tricky thing if you’re single. It can be even trickier when you’re a woman. Online dating is it’s most trickiest when you are dating as a single woman who is black.
A few months back, after a dozen trial and error moments of breaking up and getting back together, I officially ended my relationship with my boyfriend of two years. I was relieved to be single and free to focus on school, my career and my passions. I wasn’t really thinking about getting back into a relationship or even casually dating any time soon.