Don't Just Stand There! Be!

Last night I was in the kitchen making salad for myself. I was tearing pieces of Basil and chopping some small vine tomatoes and red onions which I love and then two cloves of garlic. It was while I was chopping the garlic that I realized for a moment it was all I was doing. I was just chopping the garlic. Nothing else was going on, in my head, in my heart. I was fully present. Just mincing garlic, just getting the job done with the right tools and the right attitude. Enjoying the smells and the sounds, looking forward to the outcome whatever it may be. I like making salad.

I know it sounds like a small thing but it’s huge for me when I experience moments of being fully present because I am rarely fully present. Even when I try to inject love and light and positivity into my daily efforts it still feels like just that. Effort.  Deep down I don’t believe that effort has any place in truly being. We don’t put any effort into breathing if we’re lucky. In fact we hardly notice it until we are instructed to pay attention to it and then we experience varying degrees of anxiety over whether we’re breathing right, whether we know how to breathe, if we’re thinking the right thoughts when we breathe….effort.  

Then all of a sudden we can’t stop thinking about breathing and breathing can no longer just be itself, the thing that keeps you alive that filters the air it brings into your lungs and blood stream and expels what it turns into carbon dioxide, just doing its job without you even noticing it. It’s rare that we pay attention to our breath until we are short of it. 

When you find yourself drowning in an ocean like I did many years ago in Barbados, great big gulps of air become like life blood. When you have a panic attack or find it hard getting to the top of a flight of stairs or exhaust yourself working out. These are the moments we notice our breath, when we sometimes flail around wildly grasping for it. Otherwise, we’re more preoccupied with thoughts and feelings. I know I am.

When I find myself really arrive in myself anywhere, with no invitation or conscious instruction, I am quietly very thankful because I know that in the next minute or two I will let my “self” be dragged right back into that familiar space of not really being there, of being in the past or in an imagined future but not right where I am, where I’m supposed to be. I want to be able to get myself here more often because I know this is the natural state of being for any life form. I know it because it feels natural to me and I remember feeling this way 99% of the time as a child as opposed to maybe 15% of time now as an adult. Deflecting, distracting, protecting, avoiding, managing, juggling multitasking, imagining, interneting, means you’re not being most of time. And if you’re a single parent! God help you! 

And the crazy thing, is that just being is like my deepest wish and fantasy for myself and others. If anyone were to ask me what I wish and dream and hope for, it’s like I have this image of myself being able to just be 100% of time! 

Here’s what it looks like:

Never feeling like I need to run for cover from people I don’t want to engage with or put on a fake smile or protect myself from negativity, my own and that which comes from others, never worrying about how much money I have and being able to be generous all the time with my money, my love, my time, my light within reason without feeling like someone is out to get me or rain on my parade. Feeling like I can trust people’s expressed intentions and just be more trusting in general. Never feeling like I need to purchase something useless to make me feel valid for a few minutes or make me feel like I’m in with the trends. And lastly just being able to be where I am wherever I am and whomever I am with.  That’s what I want. That’s my deep wish. Even admitting that gives me tiny but sharp internal stabs and a kind of hollowness in my chest.  Why should just being and living your purpose be such a big deal to want?  I don’t think it is. But I think society and our own implicit contribution to its systematic structure works daily to send us the message on many levels that just being is not valued at all.

Capitalism can only grow when it is shoveling the perceived feelings of desperation, panic, unworthiness, lack and self hatred of the masses down it's throat. Sometimes I have to go off the grid. Fortunately, I am not alone.

Emerging Esteem

In 2009 my honey and I vacationed in San Francisco. I wrote this long entry about meeting my cousin on my dad's side there for the first time. I just happened upon it today on my flash drive while I was doing some classwork. It resonated with me suddenly because of a conversation I had a while ago with my friend and fellow blogger over at soulsistah4real about the effect that fathers have on female self esteem. I hope I haven't posted this before. I don't think I did. But anyway. Here it is.

Emerging Esteem

            This summer I went on vacation in San Francisco with my fiancée and met my cousin D. on my dad’s side for the first time in my life. She is dark skinned with locks, fifty or so but I couldn’t tell by looking. I liked her even before I met her. I just liked the way she sounded on the phone when she called me at the Hotel to find out what my plans were.          

            She picked us up in Glen Park and drove us to her mother’s huge house. All three of us, me, D. and F. ended up talking for hours. We were out in the yard for a bit but then we came in when it got cool. We sat in a large lounge area in the basement  that she said was designed and built by her father, my uncle, a man I’d never met and never would but heard a lot about from my dad since I was a girl. My dad called him “Brother.” They had has an unfortunate falling out and stopped talking. If there was ever the possibility of reconciliation it didn’t happen before “Brother” died of a heart attack. This happened when I was still young but old enough to feel the impact it had on my father even if he never talked about it in detail.

            D. said that this room her father built was her favorite room and I could tell by the way she talked about him that she really cared for him, very similarly to the way I feel about my own dad, her “Uncle George” whom she loves as well. Somehow we ended up talking about how her father would give her some of the best advice she ever got on exactly what the perfect age was for her to have sex. This was when she was a young girl! I was stunned. I could never have had conversations like that about sex with my father when I was young, never!  It seemed a radical and frankly icky notion to me. But then D. said something I’d never heard before. 

“Woman get their self esteem from their fathers.”

            Well at first I was kind of resentful of that statement, especially considering what a strong and progressive woman my mom is. I watched her boldly face down so many obstacles for my brother and she was always encouraging me to love myself I that I always felt I must have gotten my self esteem from her. Aren’t mothers the main role models for their daughters and vice versa? But I didn’t protest too much because I started to feel like she was onto something,

            She went on to say that women who have good relationships with their dads don’t freak out so much about men in later years. They tend not to place too much meaning on a definition of their worth as seen through other mens opinions. That was something worth thinking about. 

            And let’s look at me. I’m a classic daddy’s girl, been best friends with my dad since I was born. We’ve always shared a special relationship. He was my protector and my hero. Of the two parents, my dad picked me up in his arms the most, so I went to him more often because I knew he wouldn’t mind carrying me. My mom wasn’t so much into that and I’m glad she wasn’t. My dad spoiled me enough. I needed balance in my life. Plus I also had my brother around who played with me all the time and that made being comfortable around men a lot easier to this day.  So maybe there is something to what my cousin said. I certainly get an unconscious feeling of entitlement with men from my dad. I guess because I knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do for me he could.

I remember once walking in Prospect Park in Brooklyn with my dad. I guess I had gotten ahead of him a bit and in trying to cross the road got hit accidentally by a biker who couldn’t figure which way I was turning and was maybe going too fast to stop. I was around five years old or so. I don’t remember getting hit but I know it was bad. I was scared and all I remember was balling my eyes out in shock.  My dad was so angry he took the guys bike and through it over a bridge at the overpass we were on. That was the end of that bike. That was the end of that period. That man knew better than to retaliate.  I’m not saying my dad was right. But this incident sent a little girl a very affirming message about how her dad felt about anyone hurting her, and that’s something that stays with me in one form or another for life among countless other protective and supportive things my dad has done for me and still does to this day.

Good+Bad+Girl

 Let's go see some naked daughters and moms!

-Liz Lemon

"30 Rock"

 

I was listening to “Mine” on the Beyoncé album this morning as I’m starting to retreat back into music after flooding myself with podcasts during commutes for the last month or so. I love that song. To me it’s technically multi-textured, melodious, emotional, and sentimental. I love it and I love Drakes part as well even if to me, the idea of “Good Girl” is a kind of male fantasy created to protect the male ego. 

I mean first off, I don’t see any girls anywhere in this song. I’m just being factual here, just deconstructing. I refer to myself and other grown ass females as girls as much as the next woman but when a guy does this, it has a slightly more direct meaning for him. A “Good Girl” is well behaved and virtuous and obedient and sweet. Still though, there is much talk in the rap world about the irresistible nature of the “Bad girl.” Right. Same goes for the “Bad Boy” in our culture. Except that the “Bad Boy” is always regarded in higher esteem then the “Bad Girl” ever will be. A “Bad Girl” can’t ever change to “Good.” Once a Good Girl goes bad, she’s bad forever. Isn’t that what Jay Z said? Right. This is what I’m saying. For men, when a “Good Girl” goes bad, that’s it. No redemption, no coming back. You know who else that rings true for? Pretty much the world. “Good women” gone “Bad” rarely ever get a second chance with us. But a “Bad Boy!” OH!

He can do bad and good and bad and bad and good and bad and good again! Forgiveness for the “Bad Boy” is never a question. I mean look at Bill Clinton! “Boys will be boys.” Case closed. 

Men have a really tough time allowing women to break out of the “Good Girl” box and do something “Bad” and still think of them as “Angels” or “Good Girls.” One strike (and this could be anything from speaking your mind about sexual preferences openly or wearing a dress with a slit to your thigh in public or crawling on a piano half naked in a music video) and you’re out for good. Oh fathers! I sincerely feel for fathers everywhere having to watch their "Good Little Girls" grow up into grown sexual beings. It's hard for men and even women for that matter not to immediately associate a female who chooses to express herself sexually with someone who has sexually loose morals. But a dude! Oh he's just doing what a dude does.

 Beyonce climbs the piano half naked. 

WHORE!!!!! BURN HER!

 

Which brings me back to why I love the Album “Beyoncé.” Every time I listen to it, I discover what I believe to be tiny nuggets (with huge influences) of female liberation of a kind I have not seen explored by popular culture in a long time, probably not since Madonna came on the scene. I suppose it’s easy for some to dismiss “Beyoncé” as just another sexually exploitative project where B, lets it all hang out for a buck but that would be just plain ignorant. “Beyoncé” is a dedication of love, fidelity, sexual exploration, motherhood, womanism and creativity. 

Last night, I was glued to Scandal like I am every Thursday and reading and posting Tweets and Facebook statuses at the same time.  The way they are exploring Mellie’s character right now is just incredible to me. They are opening her up in a way that makes it just unavoidable for me continue see her as just the wicked witch they have portrayed as for the most part up until now. The pressure that she puts on herself in addition to the pressure from her peers, from the media, from society to be a “Good Wife” and a “Good Girl” just got smashed open to reveal all the shades of Mellie, how she got where she is, why she is who she thinks she is and the raw truth behind why she, like many women struggle with expressing their true desires and power while at the same time trying to avoid threatening the prevailing rule of patriarchy which promotes action or inaction as a result of fear. 

Mellie is beautiful. Mellie is vulnerable. Mellie is feminine. Mellie is sexual. Mellie is ambitious. Mellie wants to please and support her husband. Mellie has been assaulted, violated and demonized. Her public persona is icy and opportunistic.  Which of these qualities are the ones that we as women usually cling to or identify with? Which are the ones that we shy away from and avoid expressing out of fear of shame and ridicule?

What is a “Bad Girl?” What is a “Good Girl?”  Why is the word girl one we continue to use to address one another even in our 30s? It’s a question, not a judgment because to be aware is to be powerful. To own and understand your choice of expression means that it does not own you. That is why Beyoncé and Shonda Rhimes are so powerful to me. They entertain but at the same time they also provoke and they do it mindfully, with the intention of causing a scene not only to titillate but also to turn inside out the destructive cookie cutter notions of what it means to be a “Good Woman” or a "Good Girl" and in Olivia's case this season, "A Good Daughter."  Men are never held to that standard. So when Beyoncé and Rhimes put this kind of work out there, of course it’s not always well received least of all by women themselves who uphold patriarchy as faithfully and steadfastly as any white male

Patriarchy and the white male gaze are threatened by this kind of overt exposure of a woman’s insides. There is no platform in this system to reconcile that a “Good Girl” can also have “Bad Girl” qualities. It fucks with the whole two dimensional definition that goes along with the nature of stereotypes. You can only be one or the other, not both or bits of some and chunks of the other or shades of gray. Oh no! What does that mean?  I can’t call you a girl anymore? I can’t think of you as a Madonna anymore? And vice versa, if you provide the services of a stripper or a call girl, how dare you use God’s name or perform religious rituals or go to church. Blasphemy!

This is why women live longer. We were born to be the truly talented multi-taskers. We have the balls in the air, the apple pie and prayer and faith as well.

Because of Laughter

Ever since I was a girl I have always loved to laugh. If it was not for laughter I would never have had the courage to acquire a first boyfriend, but that’s getting ahead of myself.

Laughter in my household I feel came from a place of pure joy and love in my family of just being together. When I was about five years old or so, my dad and I had this running joke where he would pick me up in his arms and pretend to be dancing with me in a ballroom. And he would say in a fake snotty British accent “Dahling are you having a lovely time?” and just to be contrary and a brat I would turn my head away and say “No!” That would crack him up and I would start laughing as well. Making my dad laugh at that age was just such a validation for me. And my brother made me laugh just all the time! He would tell funny stories, make funny faces, do impersonations, we would sing and dance and make up characters together so he was always cracking me up.  My mom was more an audience member than a participant in humor because she loves to laugh as well but when she does tell a joke it’s usually through storytelling and the punch line is always well worth the buildup. 

I remember one day, my parents and I were all out in the living room in our second Brooklyn apartment and my brother came out wearing one of my dresses. We all fell apart! I mean we must have just laughed for several minutes and my brother just started cracking up too. I don’t know why he just decided to do that but it was very spontaneous and silly and totally unexpected and it just released all of this laughter. 

Now that I think of it, it makes sense to me that my brother’s best friend would end up being my first boyfriend. I was intensely shy and very picky about who I socialized with for as long as I can remember. My brother was the outgoing, social one who would run out on the playground and engage kids. I was very introverted and in a world of my own unless I was playing with my brother and cousins. Because I followed my brother everywhere, I was able to explore my own more adventurous and extroverted side comfortably. Laughter is a thing that pulls you out of yourself and unifies you with others who get the joke too and it’s a feeling I have always cherished as someone who has always felt a bit like an outsider for the most part.  My natural affinity towards comedians and class clowns has really been an unconscious one until lately. I never thought about why this was. My brother was someone I loved and trusted and made me laugh so by association I could be comfortable with having feelings for his best friend because he made laugh uproariously as well. He impressed me with how funny he was and in so doing got me to be his girlfriend. 

What I didn’t recognize then, and would not for many years, was the kind of humor that came from pain and dysfunction, a kind of compensation for something lacking. There was darkness behind the kind of humor I would come to be drawn to in many of the guys I became close to in the future but I didn’t understand that darkness. I only understood that they made me laugh.  It took me years to put it together because I just couldn’t relate to that particular source of pain. I thought it was impossible to be funny and not have a connection to joy and love.  As it turns out, some of the funniest people I’ve known have also been products of the darkest and the most troubled foundations. 

I’m starting to see now that humor and comedy, like any art at its best is about consciously working out all sorts of personal and interpersonal issues and if you can make people laugh while you’re doing it, that’s all the better because laughter is truly healing. It’s cathartic and brings people together.

 F. and I laugh all the time. He’s one of the very few people whom I am comfortable being a total clown around because he gets me. We get each other. Our collective love of humor comes from a sheer love of just gut busting laughs. But my more individual tastes in humor range from out and out silliness which I attribute my dad letting us watch “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, Abbot and Costello and Laurel & Hardy to a darker, more self-deprecating, snarky, biting and sarcastic display. I was crazy about the Marx Brothers when I was a girl and probably had a bit of a thing for Groucho who was an absurdest, sarcastic, charming, lecherous flirt.  Yeah that explains a lot.  

In any case, when I get to laugh very deeply and from the core of myself, I feel cleansed in a unique way that’s incomparable to anything else I experience to relieve stress, even if it’s only for a few minutes. I guess it’s kind of like and orgasm for your lungs. LOL! Conversely, whenever I’ve had to fake laughter for extended periods of time for whatever reasons, I get a headache and feel absolutely miserable. I limit very strictly any contact I have to have with people whom I have to fake laughter around. 

 I think it’s so important to be able to discover humor which touches you authentically. I can recount the times in my life where someone who  just by making me laugh, jarred me out the occasional self-conscious paranoia that comes with just being alive and thereby brought us closer to a shared feeling of camaraderie or intimacy and I cherish those moments  just as much as any physical expression of closeness.  I remember them and treasure them dearly.