Doubt

Webster's Dictionary defines doubt as, " to be uncertain about; consider questionable or unlikely; hesitate to believe".

As a human being and as an artist, I am constantly plagued by doubt.

It often masks itself as self-criticism but in reality, I doubt myself.
I doubt my creative abilities.
I doubt my course in life.
I doubt my intelligence.
I doubt my significance to the world.
I doubt the importance of my words.

I doubt, doubt, doubt...all the damn time.

But why?
Why do we doubt ourselves?
What causes us to believe that we cannot put faith in ourselves?
What causes us to question or distrust the impact that we have on the world around us?

As artists, we live to create.
We yearn to express.
And yet many of us (including myself) are unable to simply face the fact that we are talented.
We have been given gifts that allow us to touch others with our voices and our words.
We are able to capture the very essence of life in a snapshot or a portait.

And yet many of us continue to believe that we are not good enough.
Our work is not good enough.
And many times, inside I feel as if I am not good enough.

However, I am taking a stand today.
I refuse to doubt any longer.
I refuse to believe that I am not gifted, talented, beautiful, and wonderful in every way.

Take that stand with me...

Has "The Dream" been fulfilled? No!

...and I wish media outlets and the African American community would stop saying that.

[Now before every little teeny bopper that watches CNN and has an Obama t-shirt starts to bite my head off, please READ [not skim!] what I have to say and then comment.]


Ok so as I was saying, "The Dream" of Dr. Martin Luther King has not been fulfilled with the election of President Obama. Now, I'm a major supporter of Barack Obama and I do think that his election is definitely a step in the right direction. But what people need to realize is that "The Dream" and the movement does not end here. It cannot end here. The Black community is still being treated unfairly and unjustly within the United States of America and while this is a start, we have to BUILD on this movement.

We cannot put all of our faith, hopes and dreams into one leader. We ourselves must be leaders as well. If our history has shown us anything, its that the Black community has to take control of their own destiny instead of waiting for a leader to mobilize behind. Because when that leader is gone, what happens to the movement? When Dr. King was killed, the movement stalled. When Malcolm X was killed, the movement stalled. When the Black Panther Movement was crushed by the gov't, the movement stalled. The Black community has a tendency to gather behind leaders but when those leaders are gone, we scatter in different directions once again unable to come together.

To quote President Obama, ""Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek."

Is it May yet?

I feel...claustrophobic.

As if, if I continue to stay here...in this dull Virginia town surrounded by close-minded and ignorant people...I will eventually suffocate.

I just have so many thoughts and ideas locked inside of me.
Waiting to burst out...

I'm tired of being surrounding by people who look like me but will be able to understand me. People who wave and laugh and smile...only to sneer and jeer behind my back. Tired of rubbing shoulders with the so-called "Young Black Elite" (which really means a bunch of kids who are throwing around Mommy and Daddy's money).

I'm yearning for a change.
Desperate for an escape.

Ugh... Save me from my boredom.

The Cost of Innocence

...and I feel as if someone owes me.
Who? I'm not quite sure.
But somewhere along the line
someone broke something inside of me
and they should have to pay for that.
You break it, you buy it right?
So what exactly is
the price of a young girl's innocence
or the cost of a broken heart?
It would be impossible for me to
add up all the tear filled nights
and moments of inadequacy
and I don't think I could face the pain
of trying to calculate the cost of
years of confusion and self-hatred.
Drinking...
Smoking...
Cutting...
Fucking...
All to ease the pain of being a victim
Wishing I could take control of my own life
but I stopped being in control
when he said yes
and I said no.
"Whore..."
"Slut..."
"Too fast..."
"Too grown..."
What is the price of realizing that
your own family hates you but loves you
at the same time?
The price of knowing that they wish
they didn't have to look at you
because then they could forget about your shame.
Yes, YOUR shame
because it's all your fault.
Who are you to talk about the family's business?
Who are you to accuse a family friend of rape?
Who are you to hurt...to feel...to die inside?
I was just a child.
A scared, confused child.
A broken child.
Wishing that someone could explain to me
the things that I was far too young to understand.
Begging someone to explain to me
why my family wouldn't come to my rescue
at a time I needed them the most.
Pleading with someone to make me understand
why I felt so dirty and ashamed and disgraced
when I didn't do anything wrong.
Yes, someone owes me.
But who?
Is it him?
Is it them?
Or could it be that I simply owe myself?

Speak.

I'm headed for greatest.
I feel it in my soul.
And I love it.

I love knowing that
one day a young woman will read my memoir
and cry.
Not tears of sadness
but tears of relief
because finally she knows that
she's not alone in her struggle.
There is someone out there
that also hurts as much as she does...
Someone else who fought her own demons and won.
My heart is warmed by the notion that
my writing may serve as inspiration, motivation...
or that one day it may serve as a source of controversy.

Add me to the long legacy of great writers
that have laid down a path of literary gems before me.
Allow me to contribute to a tradition
that heard the song of Maya's caged bird
and the weary blues of Langston.

Allow me to express my voice...
Allow me to speak.

My Nappy Roots

Sooo yeah... I did it.
I did the thing that Black women aren't supposed to do...
The thing that both men and women find somewhat unattractive...

I cut my hair.

Sure, it doesn't seem like a big thing but to a woman who's been permed and pressed all of her life... its HUGE.

And I love it.
I never expected to.
I just did.

I love being apart from the crowd.
Love knowing that my hair is on its way to being healthy again.
Love knowing that I can truly say that I'm a natural beauty.

I'm just surprised by all the shady looks and whispers especially since I go to an HBCU.
I was quite taken back by the stares and the confused looks.

But hey, I guess thats just how it is.

First Day of Class Blues... :-(

Ugh, its the first day of class.
This sucks so bad...

After a month of nothing but lounging around in PJs and snuggling with my sweetheart, I'm back in Hampton. Lord, help me!

But its also the beginning of the end... the last semester of my college career and I couldn't be happier. I'm ready to get OUT! Ready for graduation!

Can't wait... Just can't wait.