I am absolutely terrified of men. All men. That admission is so emotionally penetrating, I can feel my sulci shift as I write. The fear isn't proportional to size or proximity to wealth. In fact, its universality is what vexes me. This epistolary essay is not the preface to a #notallmen hashtag or some shit. This is me honoring myself and the men in my life that I cherish. It is the self-love letter that I should have written 20,000 teardrops and 100 therapy sessions ago. This is, in the words of the inimitable Tupac Shakur, "the realest shit I ever wrote."
Let me begin from the beginning. My biological father hates me for being my mother's child, never acknowledging that he chose her for that role. He loves me, though, in some strange ass way, resulting in my having erroneously processed acts of love and hate my whole life. My mother is a womanist, different from a feminist, who taught me how to very effectively push back against the patriarchy. She never taught me how to be unafraid of men. As such, I saw men as dragons to slay. My baggage is the bloody sword I carry while I walk with care through graveyards of past failed relationships. More about that later.
My memories are populated by the terrible traumas I have suffered at the hands of boys and men, at least the ones I choose to remember. I hated my relationships with women for different reasons, but I was never terrified of them. They didn't wrap their hands around my throat. They did not relentlessly harass me on the street. They did not destroy my trust in them with infidelities and other forms of emotional cruelty. They never threatened my body with themselves or a 40-ounce bottle as their weapon if I spurned their advances. Given recent events, I should consider myself lucky to have survived those encounters. One of the boys in my family molested many of us over several years. I can still smell the stench of that silence.
I do not consciously find all men terrifying. I don't hate men. I hate the terror they summon. My initial response to the terror I feel in the presence of men is something I used to label 'shyness'. Sometimes it actually is shyness. However, that 'shyness' can transform into aggression using a permutation of strategies. Maybe that's why men can find me equally or more terrifying than they are to me. Or maybe it's because I excel at a lot of things. Either way, the more threatened they feel, the more aggressive they become. The more aggressive they become, the more terrified I become of them. And then we begin this twisted emotional tango until the relationship fades to black. They think I am an alpha. I'm not an alpha or any other Greek letter. I am not impervious to pain. I am emotionally sensitive. I cry at the end of the "The Color Purple." I bake homemade biscuits from scratch. I'm cheering for love over war.
I am extremely selective of the men with whom I surround myself. There's this invisible metric of aggressiveness that many men do not realize they are being subject to in my presence. Sometimes if a man raises his voice in protest of something I've said or done---even when I'm actually on the bullshit---I cower deep into my traumatic memories and push them away. For weeks, months, years, or forever. I feel like the monster of men's creation and the women who have provided a safe haven for their destruction. An excrescence of femininity. Unlovable. Fuck you all for Christmas.
In a weird way, I feel safer antagonizing men. This is probably why I loved to play basketball so much. I could play physically without consequence. I could say whatever the fuck I was feeling in real life and it be ascribed to the intensity of competition in the moment. I think I subconsciously put myself in the domain of men because they were less terrifying that way. There were times when I went to some of the most dangerous playgrounds in Chicago to play basketball, in part, to get the rush that comes from humiliating men in the company of men. I have experienced that same rush when I would be on a public platform, like a podcast or a scientific talk, destroying these men's confidence in their abilities with my feared and sometimes merciless intellect in full earshot of their peers. However, as soon as I walked the street or entered a new intellectual space, I was vulnerable again. The man on the street could kill me in front of my children if I spurned his advances. I could lose my credibility as an academic and, thus, lose my paycheck if I wasn't on my shit. The stakes were much higher.
Ironically, I seek the protection of men and I have it. It seems strange to seek protection from members of the group that presents as a threat in the first place. I am a willing participant in this patriarchal practice. I guess that makes me a "bad feminist" to borrow the term from Dr. Roxane Gay. In fact, to not have this protection draws my ire. I guess it makes for wonderful theater to witness a girl or woman on the basketball court playing physically with or talking shit to guys, or to engage in some bullshit quasi-debate with men who sprinkle misogyny on their cereal every morning. The voyeuristic enjoyment that men got seeing me metaphorically torn limb from limb was hurtful and distressing. Every single encounter left my heart feeling sore. No one rushed to my defense. No one asked me if I was okay or if I needed a fucking hug or anything. As I write this, I am re-evaluating those friendships. I'll let you know what I come up with.
To love men while being terrified of them has left me undefined like a zero in the denominator. There are times I retreat from the terror of men. They can feel close to and distant from me at the same time. I have been accidentally enigmatic for years which, oddly, seems to draw men closer to me instead of pushing them further away. The thought of loving women romantically did not ease the fear. I love my sister friends, but I have enough lesbian and bisexual friends to know that I'm not lesbian or bisexual. I'm a cis woman who loves, is attracted to, and is terrified of men. That's a fucked up thing to say. Imagine how fucked up it is to live.
Men are police officers to me. They delight in trying to police my body, my mind, and my spirit. And like police officers, there are some good ones and some bad ones. Not all police officers kill people of color. But there are police officers who kill people of color. And there are other police officers that protect those killer police officers. Not all men beat, kill, rob, and sexually violate women. But there are men who beat, kill, rob, and sexually violate women. And there are those--men and women--who staunchly defend these men (if you think this statement is directed at you, let me assure you that it is). Internalized misogyny is the worst form of betrayal by women. Opting to justify men's unscrupulous behavior in their quest to be proximate to power significantly adds to the terror and to the anger.
My son is becoming a man. A tall, sinewy kid who has the strength of a young man. He can lift me with little effort. He's faster than me. His voice is deep and loud and sometimes, terrifying. In real life, he's actually a normal teenage boy with teenage angst and all that shit. In my mind, he's a terrifying man in training when he's angry. I am terrified of men, but I'm more terrified of being afraid of my own son for being one. I keep writing as if the terror will stay on this page and not seep into my close relationships as it always does. Although I don't know exactly what I need, I will say this: treat me with care but not with pity. I don't need pity, I need healing. I don't need men to fix me, but to listen to a voice of the unheard. I also need to curb my reckless use of Oxford commas. This essay is my gift to myself from myself. Thank you for allowing me to share my gift to me with you. One.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
Sunday, April 21, 2013
I Went and Got Myself a Gun
As you can probably tell by the date of this post, it's been quite awhile since I've posted anything. Not that I haven't had much inspiration since there is so much greatness and chaos happening domestically and globally. However, this morning I'm all hot and bothered. No, not by some fleeting sensation of sexual arousal or by a sale of beautiful shoes in my size I could walk in. This feeling stems from the continued assault on my character as a Black woman, and from the fact that my sisters--young and old--are content with and even complicit in it.
These next few paragraphs are going to be successive shotgun blasts aimed directly at my targets for discussion. I'll start them off with a brief missive:
Dear Hip-Hop and R&B:
If you are mainstream, I'm 'quitting' you. That's an ebonic colloquialism for us no longer being in a relationship. It's quite an artistic trauma since you have probably been my one of my longest and most intimate relationships. How can you get me back? Maybe if you stop calling me a bitch, I'll buy more of your records.
Sincerely,
A Former Fan
A friend of mine posted a Facebook status related to the topic of the pervasive use of the phrase "poppin' mollies" in newer artists' rhymes. Briefly, a "molly" is essentially a drug cocktail that features MDMA--the same chemical compound found in methamphetamine. It has similar hallucinogenic effects to ecstacy and other compounds in that drug class, and it's usage is growing more popular among teens and young adults. The reference to this drug in many rap tracks is intimately tied to sexual assault secondary to the disinhibition that often occurs with its use as a side effect. Many "rappers"--male and female--glorify the use of this drug for the express purpose of rendering the user unable to consent to having sex in various forms. Some lyrics go so far as to overtly state that rape is an acceptable means of acting out sexual fantasies.
Have these musical genres so lost control of their brand that it can no longer police their artists? Rap is the often the whipping boy for these conversations, but R&B (rhythm and blues) is just as guilty. As a child and teenager, I listened to various forms of hip-hop. The most controversial form of hip-hop in its early evolution was 'gangsta rap.' This form of rap (though other tracks like it predated the label) told stories of drug selling and use, of the desire to maim and kill members of law enforcement, and openly called women 'bitches' and 'hos' as part of the account of their sexual exploits. Though their accounts of street life in many cases were accurate, these groups suffered a tremendous backlash from community leaders, clergy (of course), and literature and popular culture academics. Many took to the streets in protest, and radio stations across the nation that were bold enough to play edited versions of these songs were firmly admonished. However, even in its most raw forms, I had not heard lyrics that openly advocated the distribution of any drug without consent for creating an opportunity for sexual assault! That level of oversight is dangerously absent, and the discourse about it has been reserved for the pop culture academic elite. That will be a later shotgun blast. All lyrics referencing drug uses and lewd and lascivious sexual acts were assumed to be between consenting parties. Whether or not you agree with any accounts of street life from NWA (Niggas With Attitudes) or Too Short, there is a clear distinction between someone consenting to sex and rape. That line is becoming more blurred for artists and fans, and there has been very little willingness to articulate these very important distinctions. Illicit drug use and rape are criminal acts that carry stiff legal penalties. Consensual sex is not a crime, though it often comes with a penalty of moral judgement. Shotgun blast #1.
The profit from offensive lyrics arises more from intrigue than artistry. Profiteers love to cloak the denigration of groups of people in these songs in the First Amendment. However, I see young girls taking their cues from grown women and bobbin' their heads to these songs as if in agreement. One of the byproducts of the narrowing age gap between generations is the love of similar music genres. I admittedly dance wildly to some popular songs with little regard to substance. I mean, who doesn't like a catchy beat? But it's one thing for me to dance to "Can't Hold Us" by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis as opposed to the latest songs by Drake or Lil' Wayne basically telling how they confiscate the ass by any means necessary. The only 'bad bitch' is a female dog that chews on your Jimmy Choo shoes. But we as women have become so enamoured with the idea of being 'molly-poppin' bad bitches that are down for whateva' that we liberally label ourselves as such, and teach the next generation of women to do the same. This isn't a fight that's race and class differentiated anymore since hip-hop is part of global popular culture. Shotgun blast #3. What's worse is that we as women are complicit in becoming the overseers to the slavemasters of recording executives, purveyors of the wanton denigration of ourselves for all the world to see. Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, and their ilk illustrate my point. Their popularity has soared among men and women as a result of their solipsism and demagoguery, with the primary themes being the desirability of themselves to men and being the envy of women. It would be an interesting qualitative study to confirm which of these themes resonates with men versus women. My guess is that women mislabel the desirability and envy aspect as female empowerment, and that men just like having an on-demand fantasy girl that exhibits qualities they would never attract in real life. But the disturbing trend here is the lack of advocacy for ourselves in our art, in our music, and in our politics. Shotgun blast #4.
Being an academic-in-training, I'm privy to intellectual discourse on a variety of topics. I have attended many talks on a variety of womanist topics. Though I am happy to be in a room where these conversations are happening at the highest levels of intellectualism, they are so esoteric that they obviate grassroots advocacy in communities that are the most vulnerable. Furthermore, the pervasive references to drug use and sexual assault are not central themes of these discussions, though the topics is addressed in the few academic texts that give a damn. The best intellectuals make their complex subject matter digestible to the masses. Shotgun blast #5. Long before the ascendance of popular culture academics like Dr. Michael Eric Dyson, Dr. Cornell West, or Dr. Beverly Guy-Sheftall, there was Dr. King who, in partnership with local leadership, was able to articulate some of the very complex aspects of civil rights and non-violent resistance to masses of people at various educational levels. The overarching message of basic civil rights under the U.S. Constitution was clear and received by the majority, whether or not they agreed and/or participated. Discussions on the topic of the unabashed character assault on women to the point of advocating criminal activity should be held to the same standard because the stakes are just as high! To treat this very important topic as a dialectic reserved only for the Black intelligentsia is intellectually irresponsible at best, and dangerous at worst. People have the right to know who their oppressors are and the form of oppression they are being subject to. It is not up to us to determine pre-conversation that people will ignore what we say, or even worse, are not intellectually capable of understanding what we say. Nor is it our responsibility to determine if and how one receives our statements. It is, however, our responsibility to identify the oppressors and forms of oppression, even if it means pointing the finger directly at ourselves. Though I don't advocate for the use of guns, metaphorically speaking, it's way past time that we all got one and take aim at this nonsense. One.
These next few paragraphs are going to be successive shotgun blasts aimed directly at my targets for discussion. I'll start them off with a brief missive:
Dear Hip-Hop and R&B:
If you are mainstream, I'm 'quitting' you. That's an ebonic colloquialism for us no longer being in a relationship. It's quite an artistic trauma since you have probably been my one of my longest and most intimate relationships. How can you get me back? Maybe if you stop calling me a bitch, I'll buy more of your records.
Sincerely,
A Former Fan
A friend of mine posted a Facebook status related to the topic of the pervasive use of the phrase "poppin' mollies" in newer artists' rhymes. Briefly, a "molly" is essentially a drug cocktail that features MDMA--the same chemical compound found in methamphetamine. It has similar hallucinogenic effects to ecstacy and other compounds in that drug class, and it's usage is growing more popular among teens and young adults. The reference to this drug in many rap tracks is intimately tied to sexual assault secondary to the disinhibition that often occurs with its use as a side effect. Many "rappers"--male and female--glorify the use of this drug for the express purpose of rendering the user unable to consent to having sex in various forms. Some lyrics go so far as to overtly state that rape is an acceptable means of acting out sexual fantasies.
Have these musical genres so lost control of their brand that it can no longer police their artists? Rap is the often the whipping boy for these conversations, but R&B (rhythm and blues) is just as guilty. As a child and teenager, I listened to various forms of hip-hop. The most controversial form of hip-hop in its early evolution was 'gangsta rap.' This form of rap (though other tracks like it predated the label) told stories of drug selling and use, of the desire to maim and kill members of law enforcement, and openly called women 'bitches' and 'hos' as part of the account of their sexual exploits. Though their accounts of street life in many cases were accurate, these groups suffered a tremendous backlash from community leaders, clergy (of course), and literature and popular culture academics. Many took to the streets in protest, and radio stations across the nation that were bold enough to play edited versions of these songs were firmly admonished. However, even in its most raw forms, I had not heard lyrics that openly advocated the distribution of any drug without consent for creating an opportunity for sexual assault! That level of oversight is dangerously absent, and the discourse about it has been reserved for the pop culture academic elite. That will be a later shotgun blast. All lyrics referencing drug uses and lewd and lascivious sexual acts were assumed to be between consenting parties. Whether or not you agree with any accounts of street life from NWA (Niggas With Attitudes) or Too Short, there is a clear distinction between someone consenting to sex and rape. That line is becoming more blurred for artists and fans, and there has been very little willingness to articulate these very important distinctions. Illicit drug use and rape are criminal acts that carry stiff legal penalties. Consensual sex is not a crime, though it often comes with a penalty of moral judgement. Shotgun blast #1.
The profit from offensive lyrics arises more from intrigue than artistry. Profiteers love to cloak the denigration of groups of people in these songs in the First Amendment. However, I see young girls taking their cues from grown women and bobbin' their heads to these songs as if in agreement. One of the byproducts of the narrowing age gap between generations is the love of similar music genres. I admittedly dance wildly to some popular songs with little regard to substance. I mean, who doesn't like a catchy beat? But it's one thing for me to dance to "Can't Hold Us" by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis as opposed to the latest songs by Drake or Lil' Wayne basically telling how they confiscate the ass by any means necessary. The only 'bad bitch' is a female dog that chews on your Jimmy Choo shoes. But we as women have become so enamoured with the idea of being 'molly-poppin' bad bitches that are down for whateva' that we liberally label ourselves as such, and teach the next generation of women to do the same. This isn't a fight that's race and class differentiated anymore since hip-hop is part of global popular culture. Shotgun blast #3. What's worse is that we as women are complicit in becoming the overseers to the slavemasters of recording executives, purveyors of the wanton denigration of ourselves for all the world to see. Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, and their ilk illustrate my point. Their popularity has soared among men and women as a result of their solipsism and demagoguery, with the primary themes being the desirability of themselves to men and being the envy of women. It would be an interesting qualitative study to confirm which of these themes resonates with men versus women. My guess is that women mislabel the desirability and envy aspect as female empowerment, and that men just like having an on-demand fantasy girl that exhibits qualities they would never attract in real life. But the disturbing trend here is the lack of advocacy for ourselves in our art, in our music, and in our politics. Shotgun blast #4.
Being an academic-in-training, I'm privy to intellectual discourse on a variety of topics. I have attended many talks on a variety of womanist topics. Though I am happy to be in a room where these conversations are happening at the highest levels of intellectualism, they are so esoteric that they obviate grassroots advocacy in communities that are the most vulnerable. Furthermore, the pervasive references to drug use and sexual assault are not central themes of these discussions, though the topics is addressed in the few academic texts that give a damn. The best intellectuals make their complex subject matter digestible to the masses. Shotgun blast #5. Long before the ascendance of popular culture academics like Dr. Michael Eric Dyson, Dr. Cornell West, or Dr. Beverly Guy-Sheftall, there was Dr. King who, in partnership with local leadership, was able to articulate some of the very complex aspects of civil rights and non-violent resistance to masses of people at various educational levels. The overarching message of basic civil rights under the U.S. Constitution was clear and received by the majority, whether or not they agreed and/or participated. Discussions on the topic of the unabashed character assault on women to the point of advocating criminal activity should be held to the same standard because the stakes are just as high! To treat this very important topic as a dialectic reserved only for the Black intelligentsia is intellectually irresponsible at best, and dangerous at worst. People have the right to know who their oppressors are and the form of oppression they are being subject to. It is not up to us to determine pre-conversation that people will ignore what we say, or even worse, are not intellectually capable of understanding what we say. Nor is it our responsibility to determine if and how one receives our statements. It is, however, our responsibility to identify the oppressors and forms of oppression, even if it means pointing the finger directly at ourselves. Though I don't advocate for the use of guns, metaphorically speaking, it's way past time that we all got one and take aim at this nonsense. One.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
I have spent the past four days in Fort Collins, CO. Though I was not completely shielded from the headlines of the week, I took some time to take in the splendor of the mountains. Following my impromptu spiritual renewal, I now feel it imperative to address the most recent events surrounding the allegations of sexual misconduct at Pennsylvania State University.
I am appalled and disheartened by the actions, and inactions, of the coaching staff, administration, and students of Penn State. The events surrounding the recent allegations of sexual misconduct by a former assistant football coach, Jerry Sandusky, have illuminated how misguided our priorities are. As I watched footage from the rioting that ensued following the notification of the firing of Joe Paterno as the head football coach, my visceral reaction was anger at the level of support for a person who chose to ignore his obligation to humanity to stop these heinous acts and protect these children from an obvious predator. But my anger then smoldered into pity for the misplaced loyalty of the students (and maybe faculty members) who stood together--at least 2,000 strong--in support of a mystic sports figure whose legacy I hope will always be marred by his crime of omission. I wished this latest 'occupy Penn State' event would be in protest of joblessness and crushing indebtedness among new college graduates. I wished these students would gather in protest of an institution that prioritized revenue generation and the mystique of an aging football coach over the physical and emotional health and safety of these children. These protests are eerily reminiscent of the outpouring of love and support that O.J. Simpson, R. Kelly, Bishop Eddie Long, Roman Polansky, and other prominent athletes and entertainers have received even in the face of obvious wrongdoing.
The central themes of this story are simultaneously awful and profound. Have Americans completely de-valued each other's health and well-being in favor of elevating flawed men and women above the basic needs of everyday people? The verisimilitude of an 'apology' from the former Coach Paterno lamenting the complete abdication of his responsibility to protect these children would be comical if it wasn't so tragic. Then, with equal temerity, the platitudinous nonsense of former players, coaches, etc. talking about the great Paterno legacy, with the indelible emotional trauma suffered by the victims as a footnote. And though he is the most obvious target for swift retribution, the rest of the coaching staff, the administration, and the board of trustees are just as culpable as Sandusky. Hell, they may as well as have been in the shower! I hope the narrative will shift to the egregrious violation of the law and public trust being the subject and not the predicate. And I sincerely hope our society will choose its heroes more carefully.
I am appalled and disheartened by the actions, and inactions, of the coaching staff, administration, and students of Penn State. The events surrounding the recent allegations of sexual misconduct by a former assistant football coach, Jerry Sandusky, have illuminated how misguided our priorities are. As I watched footage from the rioting that ensued following the notification of the firing of Joe Paterno as the head football coach, my visceral reaction was anger at the level of support for a person who chose to ignore his obligation to humanity to stop these heinous acts and protect these children from an obvious predator. But my anger then smoldered into pity for the misplaced loyalty of the students (and maybe faculty members) who stood together--at least 2,000 strong--in support of a mystic sports figure whose legacy I hope will always be marred by his crime of omission. I wished this latest 'occupy Penn State' event would be in protest of joblessness and crushing indebtedness among new college graduates. I wished these students would gather in protest of an institution that prioritized revenue generation and the mystique of an aging football coach over the physical and emotional health and safety of these children. These protests are eerily reminiscent of the outpouring of love and support that O.J. Simpson, R. Kelly, Bishop Eddie Long, Roman Polansky, and other prominent athletes and entertainers have received even in the face of obvious wrongdoing.
The central themes of this story are simultaneously awful and profound. Have Americans completely de-valued each other's health and well-being in favor of elevating flawed men and women above the basic needs of everyday people? The verisimilitude of an 'apology' from the former Coach Paterno lamenting the complete abdication of his responsibility to protect these children would be comical if it wasn't so tragic. Then, with equal temerity, the platitudinous nonsense of former players, coaches, etc. talking about the great Paterno legacy, with the indelible emotional trauma suffered by the victims as a footnote. And though he is the most obvious target for swift retribution, the rest of the coaching staff, the administration, and the board of trustees are just as culpable as Sandusky. Hell, they may as well as have been in the shower! I hope the narrative will shift to the egregrious violation of the law and public trust being the subject and not the predicate. And I sincerely hope our society will choose its heroes more carefully.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Gifts
It seems like if you are woman who achieves the appropriate gender-assigned milestones, you'll receive recognition. Whether it be a gift or a thousand 'Likes' or FaceBook comments, you will invariably be rewarded for what society expects you to do. When you marry, there are wedding gifts. As a bride, there's potential to get double the gifts because she also receives gifts at her bridal shower! Hearty congratulations abound for not being a lesbian, for finding a man willing to commit his life to you, and for not being a 'babymama.' When you have a baby, whoa! It's like gifts--expensive ones--rain down from Heaven, irrespective of the circumstances under which the child is coming into the world. It's a celebration of not being barren and of your sense of self being totally defined by your ability to bear children.
I think it's really nice to celebrate the important milestones in your life. But this is an honor that should be bestowed upon the rest of us. Where are the expensive gifts for the man that has decided to commit to one woman for the rest of his life when the ratio of single women to single men is like 20:1? Where is are all the gifts for the single father that has sole custody of his children? Where are the greeting cards for the battered woman that finally decided to leave an abusive relationship, and made a better life for herself? Or the battered man? Where are the FaceBook 'Likes' and comments for a lesbian or gay couple who has decided to adopt a child that no one wanted before they arrived?
We should all have an opportunity for recognition for things that for many are nearly impossible. The next time I hear someone who pursued and earned their PhD, I'm gonna throw them a PhD shower. The next time I hear a couple adopted a child--same sex or not--I'm gonna throw them a non-traditional family shower. The next time I hear a woman left a toxic relationship, I'm gonna throw them a thank-God-she-finally-got-way-from-that-fool shower. Let's celebrate breathing! Let's celebrate speaking! Let's celebrate each other! One.
I think it's really nice to celebrate the important milestones in your life. But this is an honor that should be bestowed upon the rest of us. Where are the expensive gifts for the man that has decided to commit to one woman for the rest of his life when the ratio of single women to single men is like 20:1? Where is are all the gifts for the single father that has sole custody of his children? Where are the greeting cards for the battered woman that finally decided to leave an abusive relationship, and made a better life for herself? Or the battered man? Where are the FaceBook 'Likes' and comments for a lesbian or gay couple who has decided to adopt a child that no one wanted before they arrived?
We should all have an opportunity for recognition for things that for many are nearly impossible. The next time I hear someone who pursued and earned their PhD, I'm gonna throw them a PhD shower. The next time I hear a couple adopted a child--same sex or not--I'm gonna throw them a non-traditional family shower. The next time I hear a woman left a toxic relationship, I'm gonna throw them a thank-God-she-finally-got-way-from-that-fool shower. Let's celebrate breathing! Let's celebrate speaking! Let's celebrate each other! One.
Birth of blogger
I’ve kept diaries for many years. Some of the entries chronicle the celebrations of triumphs and life’s important milestones; others contain the mildly neurotic musings of a painfully inadequate colored girl. I still appreciate the mellifluous sound of the roll of a pen on paper, and often pen my thoughts that way. But the digital gods and goddesses have given me another medium through which I write—the blog. I decided during a moment of utter counterproductivity that I needed an outlet (besides poetry) to free my right brain from the constriction and repetitiveness of scientific writing. Matter of fact, I’m blogging while I am supposed to be working diligently on something I am expected to deem important.
The title of this blog is a play on my pen name, Indigo Lee, and each entry will undoubtedly put someone on notice about something important or totally inconsequential. The complete liberation of blogging has the accompanying responsibility of addressing topics as diverse as my friendship circles are. That being said, here is an open invitation into the matrix of my curiosity and madness to share your perspective on…whatever. My only request is that everyone who posts be respectful of one another’s opinions. I mean, the best soups have a variety of ingredients, right?
I’ll end my inaugural blog with…goodbye. Peace, always.
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