So-Shall Experience:Disabling Your Ability

       Every day I go to the restroom I notice that in order to enter the restroom you have to pull the door open and in order to leave it you must push. Simple, right? Then why the need for a blog? Well, it has been slowly bothering me. Those same days that I go there are women who are 100% capable of reaching out for the door handle and pushing it who opt out to use the “Disability” automatic door opener button.  Why?

        I say why for several reasons when opening the door. The most obvious is that you are NOT disabled. Secondly, you already have germs from around the office, from the time you snuck and picked your but, the time you quickly picked yuor nose and ate it, etc already on your hand…..so would reaching for the door handle kill you? No, it wouldnt. Because in all actuallity you may wish to wash your hands before walking into a stall so that you do not place foreign germs in crevices of privacy. But judging from the nasty bitches who already dont wash their hands upon completion…. as mentioned in my Oh, So You Nasty Huh? blog….this is a far fetched option. But why has it become the norm for able persons to use the disabled buttons? I hate it when they do this at the mall just because they dont feel like opening the door and then it becomes shorted out or broken all together for the times that actual disabled persons really need it. Isnt this a sign of political incorrectness or the lack of sensitivity? Shouldnt we have some sensitvity training?

        Now, upon exiting the restroom, should you be one of the 5 in th ebuilding who actually wash your hands….the door pushes out…..why use the disability button? When I leave, i use my foot at the base of the door and kick it open, or I do the hip lean into the door. But it has never dawned on me to use a disability button when I am capable and able to find other means to open the door.

        I know that I may not be the only one who is bothered by this, but I just had to speak on it while I thought about it. Have we as a society become so lethargic that we have begun to find even more ways of not to be active? I mean, this is new heights of inactivity. Imagine how many calories could be added up in the year that a person could have lossed if they had actually pulled or pushed the door open every single time the go to the restroom. Again, I know this is far fetched but it is a start. Every little bit adds up , right? And I know that we have a disabled co-worker on our floor and , to me, she should be the ONLY one to use that button unless someone becomes temporarily physically challenged and not just lazy. This is so Wall-E if I ever saw it!

        I know that this is far fetched too, but I think that those buttons should be chip activated and only disabled persons should be able to swipe a disability issued card past the button in order to activate the door. I know a ton of people who would be pissed at the fact that they had to now actually use the appendages that were issued to them for the very purpose of pushing and pulling. Well…. I know this was random….but it is what it is. Now….please use your ability while you have it.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

Writer’s Block: D.O.C Honored by Katie Russo

      

        One of my mottos is that “The best compliment that you could ever give truth is a mirror” and I think I now have a tangible source of evidence to prove exactly what I meant by that. Someone thought that one of my poems touched them in such a manner that they would write a “reply” poem for the other demographic that was not captured in my original poem. It is powerful, it is humbling, and it is beautiful. It puts a different spin on what my poem was created for, it makes me understand my original poem better, and it makes me feel as if I have to work harder to make the reality of my words available for the lips of those who feel as if they cant speak those words on their own. My eyes are open now…. as well as my ears, and I am able to receive hope better because of this “reply” poem.

        Domestic Violence is a topic that is very close to my heart. Someone very close to me was/is in the midst of it and no matter what you try to do….it is their battle. It is a lesson of letting go and waiting. One of the most painful things is to be helpless and hopeless and pray that they will come to their own self-worth and respect before it is too late. So a few years ago, when I got the news of this abusive situation, I vented to a then friend and the topic for the poem came to life. She said that if a guy ever beat her he would be DOA before anyone could ever revive him at the hospital. I joked and said that he would be D.O.C….. and the poem was born. Here is my poem D.O.C.

“D.O.C”

(by 2Deep)

Your honor
In the case of The State vs. 2Deep The Poetess
I,
The justified assailant
Would like to plead the newly instated charge of Premeditated Self-Defense

Because as a child,

I made up my mind that no man was ever going to lay his hands on me

So after several chick flicks

And watching self-defense workout tapes to Dixie Chicks’ “Earl’s Gotta Die”

I deemed myself fully equipped to handle any man who THOUGHT that he was bold enough to threaten my self-preservation

So I present to you, Exhibit A

I present to you…

His Death Certificate

Yes, sir

That is correct

D.O.C. stands for Dead on Contact

Because he was letting me know of his impending suicide

Through traditional methods of homicide

The moment that his person violently met with my person

So that time of death you see stated there, Your Honor,

Is the moment in which his hand actually touched me

Because the moments following that,

Which actually lead to his last breath,

Were merely inconsequential

Now I present to you Exhibit B

This the map with the exact longitude and latitude

Give or take a stomp or two

Of where his sorry ass now resides

I told his mother,

“Don’t thank me for saving you on funeral costs

Just fix the heel on my boot,

patch up the hole in my floor

And get every female in your family’s tubes tied

So that no one else

Will ever have to suffer from another sorry excuse of an XY chromosome every again.”

And, Your Honor,

I know that this looks like murder

But I promise you it was self-defense

Premeditated?

Yes!

But only because I know my self-worth

But self-defense never the less

And if he were alive today

He, too, would tell you that he didn’t think I could defend myself so well

So I think that my punishment should be to get in a relationship with another sorry ass bastard

Because I will not waste tax payer dollars by filing police reports

Nor will I waste precious emergency room pace

Because you see, I live by a 2-Hit-Die Rule

You hit me

You hit the floor

You die

I am unselfish in this matter, Your Honor

Because there are women out there who need me

And if they can’t have me

They at least need to have my self-esteem

Because there’s not a creation created on this Earth bad enough to put his hands on me

EXCEPT for the devil

And even he’s smart enough to send dumbasses like this to do his dirty work

And we see how that turned out

So I guess that now’s the time for me to admit

That, yes, Sleep & I are having an affair on the side

Therefore, I will not stay up late at nights nursing bruises while he gets to sleep soundly

Nor will I try to figure out what it is that I did or did not do today that caused him to lay his hands on me

So no, Your Honor

I will not apologize for him thinking of me as a victim & me rising as a victor

But I am sorry that his damn daddy didn’t teach him who not to put his fucking hands on

SO, Your Honor, much like that motherfucker who misjudged me

I rest!

 

         For years people have laughed at the “2-Hit-Die Rule” while others have thanked me for bringing life to the topic in such a comedic manner. Either way, people have enjoyed it. I think it spreads a message. And several times I look out into the audience and I see the women nodding and agreeing with me aloud, but I also see one or two women who are either glancing at their men or are very  non-responsive to the poem. I always wondered why that is but never put much thought into it. That was my fault…. my shortcoming to not explore.

        But when one door closes, another door opens. My window of opportunity came in the form of an amazing poet; Katie Russo. Katie is an amazing teacher, journalist, poet and an overall amazing person. I met her a year ago at one of my poetry shows that I host and she has been a beacon of light amongst the darker side of this business. She asked about slam and wanted to find out the inner workers. She emailed me requesting information, wanted to know more spots where she could hear other poets, and she yearned to soak up as much information that I was willing to provide her. She wanted to study it and perfect her craft, and I honestly respected every aspect of her work ethic, so it would be no surprise that I would continue to respect her efforts in honoring my poem, D.O.C.

        Last night she was my featured artist at the open mic I hosted. I was so excited!!!! She revealed to me that she had a reply poem for the other side of my poem. She asked me to introduce her set by doing D.O.C. so that the crowd could see both sides of the spectrum, and I obliged. It was my honor to do so. And as she reaches the mic she begins to perform her poem, Conviction:

Conviction-

(by Katherine Russo)

 

You say it with such conviction,

your syllables drip with perfect diction,

You say you’ll never let a man put you in that position,

and I begin to blush

sink back into the green cushion booth

wooden table,

pen to paper,

ashamed to write this truth,

that I do wish that I could be like you.

 

I know what I used to see when I looked at me;

a palatable acoustic youth.

So unaware that well paid white guys could be abusive too.

 

I never knew when I saw his blue eyes

heard his jokes,

listened to him talk about my red hair

and offer me a smoke

that his fists were capable of anything other than

boxing,

his favorite hobby.

I thought the only time I’d see him swing

was in pursuit of muscled body;

I was mistaken.

Clenched fists didn’t just exist hunched over a computer

data computing

disgusting to me how I thought I was worth muting

because abuse didn’t look like him

and it certainly didn’t look like me

and these bruises that I have are the result of too much free

I said too much,

he drank too much,

someone hit someone but I’m the only one bruised because,

well,

I hit like a girl.

 

And girls like me are above things like these

so silently I ignored what’s so painfully obvious to see;

that I spent too many nights adorning bourbon soaked bruises in afternoons meant to be mornings

that I refused to see every road sign,

 flashing light telling me to run from this place id come to be,

 because I let someone take over all my common sense

and then devour me.

 

But then I remembered,

there was a time when I spoke with like conviction

my syllables steeped in perfect diction

I said I’d never let a man put me in that position,

and now in what feels like twisted fiction I have come to speak the truth;

until I met him,

turned into her

I was; Just. Like. You.

 

        Silence! She had performed the crowd into a trance. All I could do was nod my head and say, “Wow”. Even her boyfriend, who was supposed to record the performance, had forgotten to even turn the camera on. She was amazing. I had to confess that I think she out-wrote me! Her style, cadence and ability to draw a picturesque emotion is unbelievable.

        She mentioned how my somewhat mentoring her int his poetry field has helped her “write to speak” skills and her “write to read” skills as well. I am honored… but I think …no, I KNOW, she had the skills all along…I just may have given her an avenue to express them to where people could hear them. I take no other credit than giving her a stage….she is naturally skilled.

        I am humbled, that she would write a reply piece to my poem. Yet, I am also sadden that I never thought about the women who have YET to capture the courage that drips from my poem. I’m glad someone was able to do so. But i think that this poem speaks to more than just abuse…there is more here. I think there is a huge part of this poem that speaks to the judgmental person who screams they would never do something and then by twist of fate are forced to do exactly what they said they would never do. Here lies the truth that we all hide, cover with MAC and blame on self-propelled kitchen cabinets and loose stair railings. It makes you face your own issues and remember a time when you thought you were strong and long for the days when you can be again.

        One of the strongest lines, to me, is “disgusting to me how I thought I was worth muting”; it screamed at me. As much as I talk…trust me I talk a lot. There are times when I feel like I should be hushed just because someone else said I should be or made attempts to hush me. Long story… but just know that it spoke to me. And I thank her for shaking that part of my conscience awake from its denial.

        So between this poem and another poem by a good friend of mine…. I was in tears and deep thought last night. It was an amazing night of poetry and I was glad that I had an opportunity to witness it all, to be int he presence of such amazing company and to be honored by such an amazing poet. There is more wonderful things coming from Katie Russo…..I bet my pension on that. I am just blessed to be in her presence and to watch her work, to trust me with pieces of her journey and to have her give feedback of my work. I am inspired to write today because of her…..and that takes a lot of magic. She has the magic to make me put pen to paper and create in honor of her inspiration. Google her!!! Like Kom Plex says, she’s “googleable” lol.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

The House My Father Built

       It occurred like a script unfolding in real life. It was as if I read God’s mind, wrote a blog & then He got jealous at my telepathic skills and decided to put me to the test. “How dare I pick up on God’s plan” is what this lesson was teaching me. How  dare I be so in tune with the powers that be that I set myself up in the cross hairs of this lesson’s aim. But here I stood, or laid rather. September 17th, 2010, just 9 days after I wrote a blog about being molested by my father……I wake up to a Facebook message of a woman telling me that she worked with my father and he was trying to find me.  *glass shatters* Fear riddled my body as if the Nazi party had ratted me out to the KKK for kissing a white man in Mississippi after running away from the plantation without my freedom papers. No amount of words could describe this experience.

        It had been almost 16 years since the last time I had set eyes on, heard from, or even smelled my biological father. It wasnt even anything that I missed. But here is was, invading my Blackberry and oozing into the privacy of my house. I closed the application just because I felt that it was giving too much information about my whereabouts. There I was… wrapped in my covers having not even stepped out of bed for the morning….and I was no longer the 29-year-old woman who I was supposed to be; I was now a 9-year-old crouched in the corner of the bed waiting for my father to turn the bedroom door knob after having smoked a Newport.

        How do you compete with that? How do you explain to yourself that the emotions you are feeling are validated yet you fight so hard not to experience them? Why was I on the brink of crying? Why was I feeling heavy all of a sudden? I was grown, right? I had done well for myself without him, right? He wasnt even on my radar. The last time , before the blog, that I had even thought of my father was when I was in high school searching obituaries just so that I could finally know that he had died. It was as much of a ritual for me as Muslims pray throughout the day. It was my sanctuary of revenge.  Housed inside of my facade of happiness hid the fear that he would one day find me.

        So from my bed, the first thing that came to mind was. I rent, so the house isn’t in my name. The phone is shared with my roommate and it isn’t in my name. Other than my taxes, only a hand-full of people know my exact location. I go by my stage name so that should people in Baltimore ever reference me in his presence, he wouldn’t even know that it was me. I never take the same route home or mode of transportation from and to different locations; I’ve become my own CIA agent. I have a google voice number so that no one can ever track me down and connect me directly. I know 4 escape routes out of my house just in case I need to flee. But why was it that….with all of this hiding, he still managed to find me . In my home. In my bed. Waking me from my sleep. I managed to still be exposed. This time, I couldn’t escape.

The correspondences with the coworker went as follows:

•  
  • Gina September 17 at 6:26am Report
  • 2Deep,
    My name is Gina and I work with your father. He has ask me to send you this message he would very much like to see you and sit down and talk. We are currently in Baltimore, Maryland. Please send me a message on what you would like to do. He knows that you don’t want to see him but he request that you at least give him a chance to explain. Thanks Gina
  • 2Deep September 17 at 6:29am
    Are you serious?!!!! How’d you even find me and where does he work/live? Etc. Let me think about it b/c I really don’t see what there could be to explain.

     
  • Gina  September 17 at 6:53am Report

    2Deep, he works at [employer], our number is 410-[###-###] not that I am pushing the issue just wanted to give you the number just in case after you think about it. Thanks for answering me, he does not have a computer

     
  • 2Deep September 17 at 6:55am

    I don’t mean to be rude, as this is not directed at you, but why is he looking for me now and does he know where I am? Is he dying? Because this sounds like a guilty man dying.

     
  • Gina  September 17 at 7:11am Report

    Believe me I understand and I know it is not directed at me. He was off yesterday and he came in this morning and said that a situation had come up and I guess someone told him to check on Facebook , in conversation I told him I had a Facebook account and that’s how he found you. He said that he has been looking for you, and it is important that he sees you. and no he is not dying. he just said to me it is important to him. I do not know the story nor am I trying to get in your business or his, but I understand your feelings because even though it may not be the same situation one of my family members did not see their child for years, and when they tried she did not want to see them. so I do understand. He just knows that you may be in Maryland, at least that’s what he said.

     
  • 2Deep September 17 at 7:13am

    Well, I will think about it. Thanks. Have a blessed day.

    Sent via Facebook Mobile

     
  • Gina  September 17 at 7:17am Report

    you too!!!

        Wow! What a way to start the day, huh? The sad part about it was… I put on a good front. I stood my ground and appeared sane. If only for a moment I felt proud of myself. I got up and took a shower, ate, and took over an hour to decide what I was going to wear to work, how was my hair suppose to be, and should I wear make-up. BAM! I caught myself. I caught myself making sure I was “perfect”. I hadn’t done this in years. My father, without even being in the same house, had managed to creep into my psyche and revert me back to the child who double checked everything before leaving my room. Part of it was to make sure that I was well covered so he wouldn’t be attracted to anything on me. The other half was so that I could cover up to the world just how worthless and ugly I felt from what was going on behind the walls of my house. It was dress up. And even though I still havent seen Tyler Perry’s interview, but have heard of it….. I dressed up to run away from the moments that weren’t so pretty. Everything could be dressed up. Everything could be made into make-believe and make-believe made real. And 16 years later, I stood in my house playing dress up for the day.  And I sat Indian style on the floor and cried. I made myself look in the mirror as I did this, made myself self say “fuck the time” as I was already late for work, and I cried.

I cried that the emotions I had dressed up had taken it  upon themselves to undress without my permission. They had chosen to come out of the closet and drape over my camouflage and force me to pay attention to the situation at hand. And I wasnt ready. I wasnt ready to go out on stage. I wasnt ready to speak the lines that were literally written on the page, but rather summarize the thesis. But curtain call was calling me to come and hold this situation’s hand and take a bow….the run on Broadway could end, but for some reason… I was a member of Cats and I identified myself with this long drawn out version of my existence. Who would I be if I didn’t have this as a crutch to fall back on when needed? Who would I be if I didn’t have this hatred in the back of my heart? Who am I?

So I got up, wiped the make-up from my face, pulled my hair back in a simple pony tail, and I went to work comfortably for the day. I was ready to be a big girl. Despite the walls that my father had helped me to build around my fears, around my self-worth, around my heart, I too knew how to handle a tool or two. And this act of defiance, this unwillingness to dress up on this day, shook the very foundation of my father’s house of cards that once seemed like Alcatraz wrapped around me. And a few days passed……

• 2Deep September 20 at 2:23pm

  Hello,

  I still havent decided on myself, but you could at least tell him that I passed his information on to my sister. She has been looking for him.

  I guess what is stalling my final decision would be.. what “situation” occurred that made him wish to look for me. If that cannot be answered on your part, I completely understand.

  I humbly appreciate your patience and understanding as well as your participation. God bless!
  ~2Deep

• Gina September 20 at 4:01pm Report
  2Deep I am at home now so first thing in the morning I will tell him about your message. We also looked for your sister on here as well and we did find a [My Sister’s Name] on here and I sent a friend request to the young lady but have not heard from her maybe she is not the right person or because she doesn’t know me she did not accept my request. I am sure he will want me to send a message to you in the morning but I don’t want to wake you in the morning so let me know what is a good time because I think that I may have woke you up the last time we spoke thru messaging. Thanks Gina
• 2Deep September 20 at 4:14pm
  I wake up around 6:30am every morning so I was just waking up last time. Yes, that is her and I have no clue if she still has an account here on FB, she an I are currently not speaking. Like Father, like child. Have a blessed evening.
• Gina  September 20 at 5:02pm Report
  YOU TOO!!
• Gina  September 21 at 9:15am Report
  2Deep,
  This is what he said to me. YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER AND I LOVE YOU AND WANT TO SEE YOU. When you decide to see me I will explain everything. that’s what he said to me. Gina
• 2Deep September 21 at 9:21am
  LMAO!!!!! Boy, I always wondered where I got my twisted humor from. Now, I see that I got it honest. Thanks for the message. I pray that you have a wonderful day. Mine is going beautifully. God bless!~2Deep

  Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 21 at 9:27am Report
  I am sorry if I sounded abrupt but that’s exactly how he said it to me.
  Gina
• 2Deep   September 21 at 9:36am
  Oh no, it’s NOT YOU. I heard his voice in my head when you said it. I believe that is exactly how he said it & that’s what makes it funny. Don’t mind me. Long story. Thanks again.

  Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 21 at 9:45am Report
  ok, no problem have a good one.
• 2Deep September 21 at 9:31p

        My sister, the one who would have a better shot at robbing Jesus of a Rolex & speaking to my father, said that she called the number you provided today around 4pm your time & no one answered. When is there a better time to call?I don’t know you, but I pray that this isn’t a prank,   for my sister’s sake. B/c this would kill her if she couldn’t actually get in contact w/ him. Thanks.

• Gina    September 22 at 6:40am Report
• 2Deep, this is not a joke!! I know your first name is [My Name] (spelling may be wrong) or at least that is what your father told me. He works 7 to 3:30 we close at 4:00 and believe me the girls in the office leave at 5 of. our answering machine does not come on until 5:00 pm
  she can call during th day at anytime. she did friend me and I am sure he will send a message. Thanks Gina
• 2Deep   September 22 at 6:43am
• Thanks so very much. I care more about her talking to her name sake than myself. My apologies if I sounded rude, I just have to play big sis and make sure that she isn’t being messed with. Have a blessed day.
• Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 22 at 6:48am Report
• I do not think you are being rude. Again I don’t know the whole story and of course what little I am hearing is one side. after working with your Dad for 4yrs I kind of know how he is, and after talking to you for just a few short days I can tell that you have grown into a fine young lady with or with out him. I can understand why you want to protect your family. Have a great day!!!
• 2Deep September 22 at 6:55am
• Wow! 4 years?! More power to you! I guess my curiosity only wants to know what he looks like. I don’t think that I am either emotionally or mentally prepared to hear much else at this time. Still praying on it. If I were to ever contact him I would have to feel safe & have all of my tracks covered. I am a secluded person, very secretive & private, & wish for not even friends to be able to find me or know where I live, all thanks to him. Been this way since my teens. So I will continue to pray about it & hope that he doesn’t feed my sister lies or false hopes. Thanks again for everything. God bless.
• Sent via Facebook Mobile
• Gina September 22 at 6:58am Report
• I hope he doesn’t feed either one of you lies and false hope. I will bring a camera in and take a picture and post it on my account for you. (if I can remember, I am old lol…) What ever your decision is I am just the messenger and I wish you well. I am sure we will talk again
• 2Deep    September 22 at 6:59am
• Thanks. God bless!

        Then one day, as if I wasnt moving on his time. I get a message that shook my defiance awake. It was as if this was a true test to my face! Bold, deliberate and outright disrespectful to my very being…to my existence. I woke up to a heading that read:  [2Deep], THIS IS A LETTER YOUR FATHER WROTE TO SEND YOU. HE ASK ME TO SEND IT THROUGH FACEBOOK,  and it read:

•  
  • Gina September 24 at 1:37pm Report
    [misspelled my name],
    It saddens me that you have to think about seeing your father. That tells me that the amount of poison that you have been fed has become lethal and my suffering will continue. On the other hand I am so very proud of you and your accomplishments!!!!! you appear to be a very beautiful young lady with a promising future. I will always love you and I look forward to the day that you can look pass my failures as a parent and try to start a new relationship with me..your father.

    (2Deep, I was hesitant to send this to you because I feel that it is not my place, but he asked because he has no way to contact you and he kept asking me. ) Gina

  • 2Deep  September 24 at 1:49pm
    Thank you so very much. If there is an address (US Postal) for him where I can reply, I’ll address/reply to him personally. Since he is playing victim & suffering from a bout w/ amnesia, I’ll remain on the borders of the real issues as well. Again, you are heaven-sent & your efforts are genuinely appreciated. God bless.~2Deep

    Sent via Facebook Mobile
  • 2Deep  September 24 at 2:09pm
    P.S. Please tell him to learn how to properly spell my name, if that wasn’t a typo.

        There it was. He didn’t take responsibility for anything. it was this mysterious “poison” that I was supposed to have been fed. I felt hurt all over again, but this time I decided to fight back. I fought the urge to cry, I wavered on what I should do… so I did what came naturally… I called my dad (godfather).

I mentioned it to my dad and my mother over heard the conversation. She said to me, “Forgive him, and then move on. Dont confuse forgiveness with reconciliation.”  And that was that. Again, my mother said the simplest thing and it made perfect sense. I didn’t have to sit in turmoil over what to do. I just had to respectfully forgive. I would never be as outright as Tyler and pay for his bills, etc. But I could at least respect his position of who he should have been and close this for myself. I still havent done it yet… but I plan to. I don’t know if I want to write a letter, or to call, or to see him in person just to close this out for myself. But one day soon… I will be free. 

I wonder what it will be like to live in a new house. A house where I won the keys, where my name is on all owner’s documents. Because living in this house that my father built has brought forth some bitter-sweet memories. I am thankful that I survived, but bitter that I had to endure the construction of these walls all in the same breath. Each day I build a foundation of courage to speak my mind , the wisdom to know what to say and if I should ask questions, the strength to walk away , the understanding to not feel guilty, and forgiveness to truly mean it for good. Forgiveness: Extreme Makeovers: Home Edition.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

Super Head-ish “Pro” vs Kat Stacks-ish “Pro”

****************            VS.              *******************
 

So a sexual “pro”, some male celebrities and HOPEFULLY some condoms walk into a hotel room…… LMAO! What follows after that will depend on if you are a smart “pro” or an ignant “pro”. And yes, I said ignant…the kind of person who has yet to earn the missing vowel/consonant. Daily there are business women sleeping their way to the top, street walkers patrolling 18th & K Streets NW better than the Metropolitan Police , and the average ignant female who receives nothing for what she is giving. Who should get more respect?

Disclaimer: I don’t condone ANY of the activities mentioned above, but of course we know that sex sales in this world. Everyone wasnt raised in the church, everyone doesn’t use common sense, and not everyone has the appropriate level of self-pride ( whether too little or bona-fide hubris). This also isn’t as judgmental of a piece as it may appear….but it will state my side very strongly. lol.  You may continue….

Saying that one type of pro is smarter than another would have to be broken down via common sense versus book sense. Common sense would tell you to not engage in the acts that objectify yourself, but many don’t see it as such. Book sense would, AT THE VERY LEAST, tell you to make sure that you are getting paid for inviting others, and sometimes, the world into your physical temple. I can respect a girl who is doing something that I may not agree with if she were in fact doing it for a legit cause and were at least sustaining her life by it. I know the church is gonna scream now… but I could understand a woman feeling at her wits ends and stripping on a pole to put food on her table for her kids or to make it through law school on the right side of justice. I say if the church doesn’t like it, get like a Jehovah’s Witness and beat the streets to get God’s message out to the people. A girl can’t make it to the pole if she’s ducking behind the couch in her living room because a Jehovah’s Witness is peeking through her living room’s bay window intercepting her escape route. What I DONT get is the pro that does this mess for -ish and giggles and/or a Gucci purse. Come on!!! You mean to tell me that you think you are only worth a knock off or $1,000?!!!!! Or free pictures for a portfolio that is being seen only by local dudes claiming to be professionals. Or studio time? It both pains and kills me to see girls plastered half-naked to fully naked on the internet knowing damn well they didn’t get paid for it, their kid’s have unmet medical needs, and they are still living at home with their mother. If you are going to do it…. by all means woman… get paid for it.

Disclaimer #2: I would prefer you not do it at all, but for the sake of this blog….continue….

Super Head was the talk of the town before main stream even knew who she was. She had dirt, had secrets, but she hoarded them all until she found the right medium to profit from her indiscretions. She was a Smart Pro. She knew that people were using her for their own personal gains so why not use herself to rise above it, create a source of income that would allow her to be in charge of her own life. Much like the models who have portfolios filled with naked pictures considered to be high fashion, she didn’t reveal what she had to everyone…her body ….maybe, but definitely not without getting paid. She didn’t reveal her most prized assets to anyone who asked her to do so, she smiled for the camera, she danced to the fronts of scenes…but she made a name for herself in her own right.

Melissa Ford is another smart chick… I don’t use pro, because I don’t know what she did behind closed doors…but people took her to be such. But this woman is BRILLIANT! Have you ever spoken to her on twitter? I promise you that your mouth will fall open. She used one avenue to get into the spotlight and then got out because she didn’t need to stay there. She too may have shown some goods every now and again, but I guarantee you that her self-worth made someone’s pockets hurt. I can respect her. Idolize her? NEVER…. but I do respect her hustle.

Then you flip the rock over… and you find the gutter bugs; the leeches; the Patricks to the Spongebobs of the world; The Below- Average Heads….sorry I couldn’t keep that one in….lmbo! You have the Montana Fishburnes & Kat Stacks of the Dumb Chicks R Us sorority that make you do the Scoobie Doo; ” Rue ,Rue Shaggy?” People who see the end results but never processed the struggle that these women above had to go through. These nuts glorify the world, think it is the rite of passage into whatever fantasy they have, but they failed to plan appropriately. Kat Stacks makes me itch. If I were her, THANK THE LORD THIS IS JUST A SCENARIO…lol…but if I were, I would have saved all of the footage, all of the information and gotten paid to release it. But no, the low-budget minded female reveals it shortly after it occurs. This is what I find disturbing. This is pure business law right here, you supply as long as there is a demand and you never bite the hand that feeds you until you are full and can feed yourself after the bite.

All jokes aside, I am not a saint by any stretch of the imagination, but I just want to take every female who feels she has to show her body off in such negative lights and wrap her in my arms and tell her that she’s beautiful. People don’t say it to one another enough….but I want to run up to little girls in the street and hug them ( hell I just might start) and tell them I love them and they are beautiful..just random teens and let them hear it at least once from someone.  I want them to see beyond the present moment; it’s not art, it can keep you from getting jobs, it can keep you from friendships, it can hinder you from meaningful relationships, and it could put you in danger from the sickos of the world. I would prefer that I never saw another woman posting barely-there pics at all on the net… but if you’re going to do it… at least get paid for it UP FRONT. Dont post it in hopes of being discovered….because people will discover that you are just another female who didn’t have the wherewithal to demand your worth up front. And I know that somewhere deep down you have GOT to think better of yourself than what these pics , poses, and actions portray. I’m starting at home, from my baby cousin, who at the age of 17 keeps posting pics of her with poses from behind and her booty poking out. Every Facebook & Twitter pic gets viewed by me….she is worth MORE than that and she is beautiful and intelligent and I told her to stop making people think that SHE thinks her butt is the best she has to offer. I will fight this cause until she stops or I die… which ever comes first. I can be very annoying. She’s young enough to where she doesnt take offense to me saying it, but rather thinks I am stunting her innocent fun. She can think what she wants…..I will continue to bug every pic she posts.

*sigh*One woman at a time. LEts go!

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

What Happens in this House….:A Molestation Survivor Speaks

WARNING: This is a very graphic and tough topic. Personal experiences and sexual references are made and PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

        Somewhere, in some part of the world, there is a little girl snuggled in her bed pressed against a wall, head under her pillow with just enough space to inhale for the breath holding ahead and to peek towards the door knob awaiting the return of her personal boogie man. Monsters Inc prepares children for the monsters who reside under your bed and in your closets, but what about the monsters who pin you down to the bed and force you and this secret into the closet….what then?

        I was one of those children, and I don’t know if I have ever stopped being one of those children. To this day, I sleep with my bedroom door locked, a privilege that was not granted to me living under his roof. I have escape routes out of windows in my house just in case an intruder were to ever invade my safe haven. Windows covered in complete darkness resemble the rooms I had growing up because our neighbor’s house was so close and he lived by the rule of thumb that “what happens in this house stays in this house.” Who was I to judge his authority?

(Screaming!) He molested me! *exhales* There, I said it…outloud. Who is this “he”, you ask?

        He was my father, Charles S Carter Jr, and he was the man who molested me from before I could remember until the courts took us away from him when I was 12 years old. People say that I look like him, but I still need a DNA test to even begin that process. He was an electrical engineer with several degrees who spoke several languages, and a normal relationship was as foreign to us as him speaking Korean to me in moments of battle. I was his daughter. His first-born, born from the love that he had once married to my mother, but I would come to learn that although I was not his favorite I would turn out to be Daddy’s Girl. Late night parent daughter talks, asthmatic lungs inhaling the stench of Newports from his chest as the weight of a grown man crushed my prepubescent body into a mattress for no other reason than I was female, easily accessible, and he had a disease that yearned to be fed. Daughter perched on daddy’s lap became a moment to talk about whatever popped up, as eyes were turned to the roaming hands of a step brother who idolized him and my flat chest at the same time. This is where I lived and died daily. I lived with a military man who swore to protect his country but protected the secret of his personal habit even harder. Just ask my crushed toes underneath the Army boots that were now stepping on my feet for not wearing socks or houseshoes…as if being his daughter wasnt punishment enough.

        I remember being punished just for breathing too loudly; popped in the mouth for the escape of a smack reaching his eardrum. A simple tug of his beard meant I was in trouble. One time, he hit me so hard in my tailbone that I lost control of my legs and urinated on myself all in one swift swoop, just to turn around and get a whooping for messing up the floor. A call from the teacher meant that I would have to strip in front of my father and walk the house butt naked and if he saw me ,and felt like it, then I would get a whooping right then and there. I became a master at silently turning door knobs better than he could and dodging in and out of bedrooms and hallway closets just to go to and from the bathroom in peace. Doing number two (pardon the graphics) was the only time I could be in the bathroom in peace without anyone entering.  Fingers entering openings to ensure “cleaning” because I was filthy, followed by my father laying me on the bed to towel dry me off and rub me from head to toe with baby oil. Slow grinding on me was common place. Adolescent hips popping out of socket under the weight of his grinding, hurting, caused me to try to push him off because talking would make him lose his concentration and bring whoopings. He never listened to my cries and held my hands down. There I was, learning the best lessons of male and female relationships from my father. How lucky was I to learn about the birds and bees from my own father? Every girl needs a father in the house, right?

        One day in church I just didn’t want to go back to his house. My aunt couldn’t make me if God told me to go back himself. I’d had enough. Sitting in the police station with male police officers giving me different toys to describe my fathers penis proved unfruitful; I didn’t trust males. They had no choice but to send me back. I got a whooping until I blacked out. My father took me to a therapist to save face…maybe she could figure out where I was “making these stories up”.

        Off of Carmichael Road in Montgomery, Alabama sat my therapist’s office. A soft-spoken caucasian woman who listened intently as my father sat on the other side of the door.  That is until the day she asked me to re-enact with Barbie and Ken what I told the police happened….so, I showed her. She opened the door and invited my father into the room so he could see too. I never spoke of anything again. And yes, you guessed it….I got a whooping until I had an asthma attack and he had to take me to Maxwell Air Force Base to the ER. This time my Aunt believed me and she fought for custody…but she still allowed him visitations until she passed away when I was 15. He came to her house for her funeral and sat in the kitchen and told ever male there not to be trusted around me because I would lie on them like I had lied on him. And he vanished into street legend. I never saw him, or the therapist ever again.

        My father followed me, in theory. I heard stories of him doing crack from friends in high school, but he had taught me the best lesson ever; Never let anyone make you feel like less of a person. I walked those halls of my high school as a virgin…because I was. Guys from all around wanted to be with the virgin and every single one failed. I wouldn’t willingly give myself to someone until I was in college. You see….I was molested, but he didn’t take my virginity.

        Every guy is not my father, nor am I searching for him in every guy that I date….but through all that I wrote above and more that I didn’t write….I was still a human. A demon like him couldn’t touch the best parts of me. He couldn’t reach them with all of his might because his intentions were wrong. My virginity had nothing to do with sex…my virginity was me, my mind, my free spirit, my determination to rise above where people keep putting me, and the favor that was placed over me even though I was entangled in a generational curse. He tried, but I walked out of his house and his presence with the hymen of my integrity and the mission over my life in tack.

        Today, he lives in Baltimore. He’s never been prosecuted, never been made to suffer for what he put me and others through. One day, and maybe soon… I will walk to where they say that he works and tell him that he couldn’t break me. He couldn’t make me feel less than a princess even though my father wasnt a king.

        This is a part of what I went through, but it is NOT who I am. It helped me make decisions about not showing my body to just any guy. You’ll never hear tales of me sleeping with different guys all in the name of love without being in love. You’ll never see pics of me plastered on the internet that show more of my assets than I am showing I am worth. And you will never hear that I’ve stopped breaking the silence. I was molested but I was never a victim. My virginity never has to be born again because it never died. I found strength through this. Dont get me wrong, I’d never go back a second time…. but I made it out, and THAT is something to be proud of. Where I came from does NOT determine where I will go.

       So, to anyone who has been through similar stories….today is not too late to realize that they had the problem and not you. We are of a sisterhood that many will never understand. I salute you and all of your wonderful glory. I stopped holding my father accountable for what he did to me and the effects it had on my life the day I last saw him….that is not my battle. It weighs you down, trust me. I try to find love as much as often in my daily activities…..today.. I love you. One day you will gain the strength to no longer be ashamed of your story…until then I will speak for you, I dont mind. What are sisters for, right?

        My prayer is that, just this once ,you listen to my father: What happened in your house, stays in your house…..including the pain and the shame. We’ve got other little girls to protect. No time for living in the past. Here, take my hand…..I’m with you as we walk out of our molester’s house. God bless!

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

This is the house where majority of it happened. On Pinebrook Dr in Montgomery,AL

….She’s Skinny…Standing Next to Your Mama!

NOTICE: If you read this.. LEAVE A NOTE DANGIT!!! W/ your rude behind!

 Yes….another blog entry about weight… get over it.

        So, one of my personal assistants, Andrew, and I have had long and drawn out text messages over the issue of weight. I hate to admit it…. but he brings forth some very good points….at very few times (lol). Yet, on some of his other points I need to know why he thinks that way because its hard for me to see a guy with amazing abs and body (did I mention his eyes?) hold a legit, equally balanced, and unbiased conversation about a person’s plight for being overweight. lol. [Wait, I hope that doesn’t constitute as sexual harassment since he is technically my employee…lol. Oh, hell, he’ll get over it. lol. ]Maybe that is a bias that I need to change within myself; the fact that you don’t have to be overweight to know where we’re coming from. Well, long story longer than the shorter version but shorter than the longest version….in response to my blog  “Yes, I’m Fat… Thanks for Noticing” he made a good point that reminded me of an idea that I’ve had for years; Why are plus size people looked at as weak? Shouldnt we be viewed as the stronger persons in society for walking daily with our issues on our shoulders? Shouldnt we be the sought after ones for surviving through all of the ridicule?

If you havent read the other blog entry… CLICK HERE and read it to catch up, you slacker.

 

        In the aforementioned blog I made the mention of how other people can hide their weaknesses and personal habits but that plus size people wear their issues on the exterior. We may eat in secret, or swallow pain and resentment covered in mango curry sauce…but everyone can still visually see our issues. Shouldnt the outward appearance of our issues be enough to say, “Here I am world. You know my problems now what are yours?” It would be like Intervention’s version of “You show me yours & I’ll show you mine.” Fear Factor for the dysfunctionally senile in denial! Those who are willing to walk to the closet of their issues and drape them with a beautiful umpire waisted belt and walk into the world the very same way that we do every day. See, walking to the closet every day , for the plus size woman who has accepted her plight and is not in denial, is more like preparing for a final exam or your thesis statement (just got another blog idea). What will this outfit say about me as it wraps itself around my already pronounced issues? I mean, there are tons of things that go through our mind as we get dressed, but in the end we walk out of the house with our heads raised high….some of us… and we face the world.

        How ironic is it that the world would make the people who carry the most weight the physically weakest? Shouldnt my carrying these extra 70 pounds make me stronger? Well, yes, technically it does…just not in the same physical manner as the gym buffs without necks. We become emotionally stronger and self-sufficient in our lives. Many of us have the very things wrapped up in our post-Christmas dinner wrappings that several other people look for but aren’t willing to unwrap.

        Picture this: (And this is not Skinny Chick Bashing but this is blunt Anti-Skinny Chick…lol.. I use to be one, so I can speak on it) A guy sees a fine, thin woman from across the room. He loves the way her curves appear, her assets are ripe for the picking and her womb is playing peek-a-boo behind a nicely Golds Gym ripped set of abs. This is what he loves. Now, as soon as she gets a little thicker, the birthing hips have now given birth to stretch marks and indent lines from the too tight panties she has suction cupped to her butt in hopes that this physical change will soon go away, he (not all but some) will no longer find her attractive. Phrases like, “Baby you’ve changed”, “You’re not the same woman I met” or “You’ve let yourself go” find their way into their relationship.  Was he there for the woman’s personality or was he there for her looks? Because a woman will stay there when she is in love and watch his waist grown and learn to love that there is more of him.

        Picture this #2: You have the hoodrat with the big booty, 2.5 kids or 5 abortions deep…which ever will make this more disgusting for you, living at home with her mama striving to be a model who SOMEHOW manages to get the business man who one would THINK had enough common sense to know that he needs a woman who is more on his level. Standing from my previous skinny chick position, even I would say that he was in it for the booty and he’d never marry her in his right mind. Some would say why would any woman want him in the first place? It is not necessarily that we would want him… we want his eyes to be opened to what he could have and is missing out on all for the love of booty. (Sounds like another VH1 Reality Show, right?) You have beautiful plus size women who would make sure that the home was taken care of, the man was head of household, a companion in both business and personal decisions who are intelligent beyond their years being passed up on a daily basis just because a guy can’t see himself with a full-figured woman. He is passing up the very qualities that a man is supposed to findth in a wife….not wifey…but a wife. See, something is not right with either of these pictures….. these scenarios are in need of a new photographer.

        I say this, fellas…. in a plus size woman, if you look at the qualities that she has: is she intelligent, is she mentally stable, she doesn’t have 7 different baby daddies, does she have goals in life, etc…then you will begin to see what we see. Instead of worrying what your size 4 girlfriend is going to look like in 7 years…you’ll already know what we look like when we gain weight…lol. The surprise will be what will we look like should we ever decide to lose the weight for ourselves, but the surprise will never be that you have possibly gained a beautiful woman who is created from your dreams and crafted to suit your needs as she conquers her own world as well.

        I understand that everyone has a preference that they are entitled to pursue, if you truly arent attracted, then you are exempt. I’m here to speak to the brothers that creep behind closed doors with the plus size sisters but wont take her out in public for one reason or another (all of the reasons may not be weight….but I see y’all taking the crazy as hell skinny chicks out in public while she shows out). You like who you like, and you don’t like who you don’t like, but I want guys to stop treating plus size women like the white girlfriend cooking bacon for a black muslim; a taboo. We exists, we are sexy, and we go through a lot just to fight to be treated less than equal. We run businesses, we dress to the nines, and we love life just like any other person because we are human as well……we just want to be treated as humans. We can put it on our husbands, whip up a meal and push out some gorgeous children too…all while being the true trophy on your arm. People will see our size, but they will also see the courage that it took for you to tell them all  to fall face forward with their mouth opened wide on to the lap of the status quo and commence to Super Heading.

Super Heading- (verb) created by 2Deep on Sept 7th. Intended to suggest the actions perfected by Karrin Stefans aka Super Head. Filacio.

        Fellas, can you imagine being a trendsetter?! Joining the brotherhood of the thousands of men who stopped being so friggin self-centered and shallow and finally found a woman who would have his back… who also happened to be plus size? Every size woman has her issues….but you’ll never know until you try. Stop asking if there are any real good women out there if you are only looking at 12 percent of the female population, whether it be size, skin tone, creed, or length of weave. There are some very attractive women out there who could be exactly what you are looking for…..the problem is that you’re not looking in her direction. She wears majority of her issues on her exterior…so if for no other reason to date her…. you know what you are getting into. You know that she managed to walk through the day exposed and may need a hug from you. But deep down she is still strong, not a victim, and not to be judged…she is human. At least treat her as such, and if all you see is a plus size woman who is unattractive,lazy, and not worth your time because she’s let herself go…think this….”at least she’s skinny standing next to your mama!” LMBO!!! (Thanks KaNikki!)

Sincerely,

Mother’s Daughter