Brown Skin Crowned Most Beautiful!

Well, People Magazine confirmed what I (and hopefully you too) already knew. Generally speaking, People proclaimed that brown skinned women are just as beautiful--if not more--than their non-melanin counterparts. And this was done all by way of the super talented actress who has mesmerized us all (don't front), Lupita Nyong'o. 

Lupita's picture is front row and center of this cover to be seen by millions of eyes around the world. What makes this even more special is to think of her words just months earlier as she accepted the Best Breakthrough Performance Award for her role as Patsy in 12 Years A Slave at the Black Women in Hollywood Luncheon:

"I remember a time when I too felt unbeautiful. I put on the TV and only saw pale skin. I got teased and taunted about my night-shaded skin....I hope that my presence on your screens and in the magazines may lead you, young girl, on a similar journey. That you will feel the validation of your external beauty but also get to the deeper business of being beautiful inside. There is no shade in that beauty."

While some celebrity flee from the limelight and shrink at the label of "role model," Lupita is soaking it up, breathing it in and using it as a tool to inspire young girls to aspire. Her beauty from within illuminates the beauty that is first noticed from without. I didn't need People's nod to notice...but it's good to know they do.

Congrats to Lupita!!! May all women of all shades continue to be marked BEAUTIFUL! 

Read more about Lupita's blooming career, here. 

My Problem With The #BanBossy Campaign

In case you haven’t heard, there is a campaign currently catching fire that is encouraging women and girls--people everywhere basically—to strike the word bossy from their language. Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg's non-profit Lean In and Girl Scouts of America are taking the lead with this campaign. And of course it is complete with celebrity endorsements. Beyonce is in on it. 

Complete with a website and all. 

One of the main draws of the #BanBossy movement is the statistics that state girls are less prone to speak up than boys by the time they reach middle school. In fact the entire movement is based upon the reception of girls and stigmas that are attached them if they speak up or speak out. And thus my problems begin. I list them for you below:

1). Bossy is a real thing. 

First, let's define the word bossy. Bossy: given to ordering people about; overly authoritative; domineering.

There are some actions that are blatantly controlling and constitute as bossy behavior. When my 6 year old tells her brother “why are you doing that?” followed by firm incessant no’s and don’t do that followed by directions on what to play and how to play–this is bossy! I repeatedly have coached my daughter in the difference in being bossy and controlling versus being a leader and persuasive. And I will continue to do so until she uses a tone of respect and words that illicit helpfulness and actions that allow others to figure things out on their own terms. Leaders lead from inspiration. My daughter is assertive and aggressive. Two characteristics I give to her with no qualms or shrinkage. In fact, these are attributes I wish I readily obtained as a young girl. Just the opposite, my nature was shy and introverted. It wasn’t until I became a young adult that I had to learn to be assertive and aggressive—not bossy.

2). Use words correctly. 

In terms of the person who supervises me at my place of employment; she is my supervisor. Not my boss. She does not order me around. I do not refer to her as my boss. In that connotation, I find it to be offensive. It's not the appropriate word to use. Neither is using the words bossy and assertive simultaneous. Assertiveness begets confidence; bossiness begets control. They are not one in the same. 

3). Don’t be choosy with your words. 

It is ironic to me that Beyonce is involved here. Really?? She uses the term boss and/or bossy in many of her lyrics. Why now is she determining that such a word is no longer applicable? Further, pop culture has embraced the word bossy to mean mastery of a certain skill or craft. (i.e., boss chef). Let’s also not forget the never old Kelis song, Bossy.

4) Isn’t the idea of banning a word kind of…well…bossy? 

Words are freeing. Instead of banning a word from our vocabulary, we need to teach our children the correct ways in which to communicate with each other. Putting the clamps on a singular word is a form of control--all in the spirit of non-control.

So I'll keep telling my children to stop their bossy ways of ordering others around, telling people when to come and how to go. Because such behavior is not an acceptable form of communication in our home, within family and friends and in our community. But in the idea of proper balance and respect I will tell them to speak up and stand out when you have been wronged, are uncomfortable with a touch or certain language. I will not reinforce domineering or controlling behavior but will tell them to watch their words. I will explicit tell them about one's right to speak and won't forget about to teach them about the right to respond. I will further explain that the latter point flows in both directions of communication.

Further, these attributes will be shared with my sons and daughters, nieces and nephews--all young girls and young boys alike. The symmetry of all expectations of behavior and communication should be the same for both genders. Don't single out the perception of girls without raising the standard for how we teach our boys.

Lastly, I will continue to teach my children self control of their actions efforts words and deeds -- all without clamping down others with control. 

Let's call bossiness what it is--but let's teach our children the opposite. 

A Dream Deferred...

For as long as can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. My 3rd grade teacher, Mr. David Bible, introduced me to Langston Hughes and challenged me to write my first short story -- and I was hooked. In fact I went into the journalism program at Otterbein College with the intention of being a writer and editor. I wanted to be the person to assist writers (published and unpublished) in their journey to telling the story they envisioned in your mind; to cultivate an idea's expression into a story worth reading and to be an ear of advice to the novice. But no one told me how to make this dream a reality when after graduating from undergrad and I could not land a job in the journalism field, I turned to the jobs I could get, and away from the jobs I wanted. 

Fast forward some years (I won't tell how many) and I had deferred that dream. But it was still knocking. 

Blogging has been the fuel for many writers to put their thoughts, opinions, ideas and stories to life without the backings of a traditional publishing house. Specifically, this blog has provided me a platform to talk about my struggles (past and present) and my life. It was this blog that propelled a family member to solicit me for help for his wife who is writing a memoir. To make a long story short, I have my first official editorial client! 

Keep in mind, I've done this kind of work before. Edited manuscripts when asked to, created and re-formatted resumes. But although I was operating in the form of an editor, I didn't take it seriously. So, it didn't take me seriously. It wasn't until recently that I started looking at my life from the inside. What I mean is writing down and envisioning the life I wanted. Then, looking within with the power that God gave me to bring it to fruition. Not looking on the outside to think of an excuse not to! But look for the reason inside myself that was always there! Not waiting for the right job to come around--but creating the job I wanted. Creating the life I want to live. This is the case for every area. No more excuses, no more fear! The will to do it was inside me all along...

Family is in the Feeling

Growing up the only girl in my family, I wanted a sister badly. As a young girl I would often ask my parents if they could have another child--preferably a sister especially for me. 
Now, looking back, I understand how naive I was. I was too caught up on the label to understand I always had sisters--and still do. 

This past weekend Keith said, "I liken your friends as your sisters." And he's right. My close friends are, to me, like extended family. My friends over the years have accompanied me on family vacations (and vice versa), have been there when my daughter was born and walked me through just about every life change that makes up the sum of who I am. I am fortunate.

In my blended family, the only time we use the term "step" is for legal, documentation purposes--to let those outside of us understand the nature of the formal relationship. But that's just on paper. Frankly, I had to explain to her what a "stepfather" was when her teacher announced him as such as the person who would pick her up from school one day. The essence is Trinity knows my husband as her Dad--regardless of the fact they share no DNA. His care, time, discipline and attention create for her the feeling of what she believes a father to be. I did not force this name on her. One day, after knowing him for about 4 months, the verbal transition slipped easily from her lips and the title has stayed since. She is home with him.

It is the same qualitative relationship that often propels Keith's children to call me "mommy." And the same love that provokes me to call them my children upon introduction. Sure, their mother may not agree with that label for me -- and I respect that. But there is something that is familiar about the endearing terms that are usually reserved for those we share DNA with. 

Keith often says that choosing to love someone as your family is perhaps more special than loving those who are actually your family. I think he's right. Love is a choice. People often say you don't choose your family. And formally, you don't. But I also believe family is in the feeling. The feeling of walking into my friend's house and immediately recognize changes to their decor because my visits are frequent, or not being told where the bathroom is, or even helping myself to the kitchen in preparation of a meal. It is familiar, cozy, comfortable, soothing and...home.

I've come to the conclusion that whatever label my husband's children decide works best for them, it is arbitrary to the quality of our relationship. We've built trust and love over the years and it will follow them for the rest of their lives because that's how long I'll be around. I have friends who introduce me as their sister--because the tie that binds us is as if we came from the same DNA. My sisters are here. It is extended family working at its finest. So whether Keith's children call me Ms. Tiffany, Mom, or stepmom, love still reigns. And in love, labels don't fit. 

Finish Something!

For the second day in a row, I woke up with the overwhelming thought that I need to finish what I start. I actually think this thought was in my subconscious and prior to my alarm waking me prematurely, would have stirred me out of sleep. 

I made a mental list of things I'd hoped, wanted or started to do but had yet to see them come alive: children's book in illustration limbo, novel, documentary...and other creative ideas I don't even want to name because someone might take my great idea (yes, they're that good). I've made a few strategic moves in the last few days to put some legs to a few of these but what I'm more interested in is to see them take flight. 

Finishing means you have to start, right? Sure, things take time. I get that. I absolutely respect the process that it takes to build dreams. But what propels someone to finish what they start? I realized the only thing I've ever finished was my education. After that, the rest is up to me. I've often marveled at another's ability to bring into fruition a vision, an idea or a goal that was once just a little seed in their mind. I have even asked myself, "how did they do that so quickly?" Or, "I'd like to do something like that."

I won't make any lofty goals, resolutions or promises here. The objective is simply to finish. Not in a specific time frame that is unrealistic or gives no room for mistakes. Looking back I've pigeonholed myself to timelines. Such pressure forced me to cave to it--leaving my projects isolated and alone for months upon months. This time the I'll just encourage myself to do. To work progressively toward the goal and see it through to its completion. Hard work never hurt anyone. It's time to work!

"Run mad, as often as you choose. But do not faint!" - Jane Austen

Baby Fever: When You Don't Want To Wait

My husband and I have been married for just over 8 months. We married and had an instant family--my daughter and his daughter and son. I remember getting a text from a friend when we came back from our honeymoon that said, "Did ya'll make a baby while you were gone? lol." I responded with some quick text saying how we had enough to last us awhile and there wouldn't be any additions anytime soon. 

Prior to us getting married, we decided we'd wait at least a year before we had another child. We'd wanted a bigger place that we would purchase (we are currently renting), more financial stable and emotionally ready to intentionally bring our children another sibling. Simply put, we wanted to be ready. Or, as ready as we could be. 

But about six weeks ago, I started to get that itch. Playing around with the idea of having a baby. Not now, but right now. I started seriously asking my husband if he wanted to have another baby but then laughing along with him when he asked if I was serious. Further, I found myself genuinely excited by the fact that my period was 6 days late. Then, was genuinely sad once it came (I confess, I cried real tears). I had planned a summer baby shower in my dreams and even began to write down names. Oh, it was bad. 

When I started a new job in the beginning of January and met a co-worker who was expecting in a few weeks, I excitedly told my husband about how cute she was when I got home that evening. Now, my response changed when people asked me if I had anything "cooking in there."

"I wish. Keith says not right now."

or

"I'm tryin'!"

My anxiousness was so great that I began researching midwives, birthing centers, home births, water births, pregnancy yoga and all things that equaled organic + childbirth. I had announced to my husband that I had "found our midwife," to which he chuckled and said "baby, we're not having a baby right now."

It wasn't until a few weeks ago that my husband and I had a real discussion about having a child that I reigned my emotions back in and had a talk with reality. The reality is we're not ready. Financially or mentally. And we all know how much each weighs on the other. Having a baby right now would put me in a similar state of panic that I was in 2008 when I was living in Atlanta preparing to be a single mother, 900 miles away from family, on rocky roads with my roommate/best friend and no real vision of what the next few months of my life looked like. Sure, there are many other factors that would change now that I'm in a stable marriage with security on many fronts. I was living under the adage that anytime was the right time simply because I was married. But I realized that being married is not an excuse to have a child in the same way having a child is not a reason to get married (the latter is a post for another day).

Having a baby changes everything. Whether its the first or the fourth, there is a life that you are responsible for you coming into the world. Tread lightly. 

After the conversation with me and my husband, I realized having a child prematurely, or, prior to when we planned, would greatly hamper the quality of life for that child and the children we already have. My temporary emotion doesn't disintegrate that fact. Truth is a hard medicine to digest. It goes down painfully but delivers great healing benefits. Sometimes those benefits or instantaneous--other times, it takes awhile to reap its rewards. The truth medicine of my baby fever is both. Being content in the now. But also patiently and diligently preparing for your future reality. There's peace in both arenas. And I'm content with that.

....But if you see me, there might be baby ramblings coming from my mouth. :-)

Short Story Sundays: Vol 3. Part 2.

Scattered Pictures, Part 2. If you haven't had a chance to read Part 1 of the story, please take some time do so, here.



The air was crisp and sharp this morning, just the way Adrian liked it. The ground was wet thanks to the sudden rainstorm that started about an hour before she took off for her morning run. It had lasted only about 30 minutes. All the while, Adrian watched from her living room window contemplating whether or not she would still partake in her Sunday morning ritual after the drops subsided. So when Adrian decided to go for it, she was sure to wear her all-weather, waterproof jacket and Nike running shoes that had good tread on them. The sky was still gray but the sun was doing its best to stretch its way through the clouds and make an appearance. Adrian was hoping the sun would win the battle today. She needed the sun. Adrian inhaled, arms up. Then exhaled, arms down. She repeated these motions five times in her driveway facing the street. The block was empty and somber. She did a few quick but focused stretches--side to side, lunges then squats--followed by one minute of jumping jacks to prepare her body for takeoff. Then her feet made greetings with the pavement.

Usually, Adrian would run with earphones tucked in and music blasting through its speakers--a fact that made her husband nervous and annoyed. But today, she'd wanted to hear what she had been missing: the music that played in front of her. 

The Near Eastside neighborhood of King-Lincoln was not what it was six years ago when her and Troy moved here. Gentrification had done a number on this once urban craddle of jazz in the 1960s and 70s turned media perpetuated ghetto of the late 80s. It was at the end of 2012 they moved in a nice, remodeled and spacious double that housed three bedrooms and two baths on 21st Ave. It was near downtown and near their jobs. The rent was more than reasonable and it was perfect. Previously, Adrian only took her morning runs on Broad Street, one of the main streets in Columbus that housed important buildings and ushered you into the downtown area. Perhaps the media perpetuated crime, dilapidated house and down on your luck people got psyched even her free-spirited mind, and so she did not "feel safe" jogging throughout the main neighborhood. But any preconceived notions about the people (who were in fact, her people) was smashed when she saw a group of black women running down Mt. Vernon Avenue one morning on her way back from an early morning coffee run for Troy. And so it was, the next day, Sunday that her ritual began.

Pat, pat, pat, pat.

That was the sound of her feet, a sound she was not familiar with. Adrian didn't know the rhythm of her feet well or the crunching of the gravel beneath her, nor the splash of water that she occasionally stepped in. She breathed in the soft and steady gusts of wind that made that cool autumn air all the more apparent. She even waved to new faces. Or perhaps they were old faces that she'd seen before. Now, her ears weren't shoved with her music of choice that could range from Pharrell to Mara Hruby to Kendrick Lamar to Jack Johnson. Adrian chuckled out loud.

There was music in front of me. 

Adrian's teeth would clinch tightly closed when any thoughts of the next three months entered her mind. She also pumped her legs harder. She used to find peace and excitement when thinking about her future--immediate and otherwise. Now she felt tension, anxiety and fear. The latter word was uncomfortable to her. When she felt fear, she wanted to crush it or run from it. It was what propelled her take up boxing as means of recreational workout when her brother told her only men do that for fun. Or, when her friends and family looked at her funny when she told them the neighborhood they'd settled on to live. What made her go for the second and last Master's degree. Sometimes it was the fear in another's eyes that propelled her to action. But now it was her turn to fear her future. And she could not run and do the opposite. She would have to face it. And she was not ready. She was afraid. 

Her watch informed her she had been running for 22 minutes and three miles. She saw him when she got to the beginning of her street where she had decided to walk the rest of the way home. Troy was fumbling around in the car while on his cellphone--her source of annoyance and one of his idiosyncrasies she accepted. He momentarily went into the house then was outside again, two of her bags in his hands. He opened the trunk then hung up the phone, putting it his jacket pocket and commenced to rummage around in the trunk. He looked up and saw her. He straightened his back. She saw his white teeth smiling at her before she completely saw his face. Instant chills ran through her whole body. She sped up her walk, excited for her immediate future that ended with her face buried in his chest. She closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar smell of vanilla and musk. 

The chemotherapy would be intense and often. 4xs a week, twice a day. Because of these Adrian would spend four straight days housed in the cancer treatment center--a resident in a hospital that donors wanted to feel more like a home. Today, she'd start on a Sunday. After that, it would be Tuesday through Friday. FMLA leave had not yet been approved through Troy's employer so he could not immediately be present for each bout of chemo. Surprisingly, Adrian's older sister Candace had offered to sit with her during the afternoon while her mother was fortunately available to her day or night.

Adrian had read online that meditating had proven to assist patients emotionally and mentally in "getting through" prolonged medical treatments.  And so she started practicing her most closely held scriptures and quotes with a soundtrack of quietness. But no amount of meditation could prepare her for the first IV injection that was both gently and aggressively forced into her forearm. It was not the initial sharp sting of the needle's end into her skin. It was everything that came and would continue to come after that: sterile food the nurses passed off as stellar, uncomfortable beds, the doctors orders that call upon her to sleep straight up or sleep on the right side, then the left side two hours later and again on the right side another four hours later, calling for assistance because she was too weak to lift herself to get out of bed. And the worst part was knowing this would be her future for the next 2 months, "or more." The latter Adrian overheard the oncologist say to Troy one evening although those words were not explicitly spoken to her.

That first night Adrian had the fish dream. It was the same fish dream she had the previous two nights. The fish dream was a colloquialism that proved to ring true time and time again. It meant that there was a current pregnancy yet to be revealed. Or, there was a coming pregnancy yet to be discovered. She had called her mother the morning after the first night she had the dream.

"No, not that I know of," Barbara stated after Adrian asked if there was a family pregnancy her mother forgot to mention to her.

"Are you sure?" This Adrian asked twice. She knew the fish dream just didn't come to pass.

"Yes, I'm sure," her mother answered.

And so it was the third night that she had dream of fish that woke her at 4 a.m. to dimmed hospital room lights and the television turned on but the volume on mute-just the wait she liked it. As she was becoming fully awake, her heart began to race rapidly as she tried to scan her mind to the last time her period had come. Her menstrual cycle had remained consistent, all while cancerous cysts danced along in her abdomen for who knows how long. She touched her forehead as she could feel sweat starting to seep through her skin. She looked over at the desk table that housed her purse that housed her phone. She couldn't immediately reach it.

"Ms. Duffey, are you ok?"

That was the nurse's station. 

Stupid heart monitor must have alerted them.

Adrian told some silly white lie about being excited about a television program she was watching. She continued to try to reach for her purse. It was far enough that she'd have to get out of the bed, but just a little. She rummaged around in her purse. It made her even more anxious once she realized she had not cleaned it out the way she planned before her trip to the center. The phone was lodged in a middle pocket below receipts and other miscellaneous papers that needed to be thrown away months ago.

Her thumb was playing ping pong with the phone's commands as she fumbled through apps upon apps to find the one that held her ovulation calendar. Adrian made a sound that sounded like a combination of a grunt and a sigh when she could not find it or remember under which header she kept it. Her eyes widened as she discovered new information that was literally right at her finger tips. She fumbled with the remote and pushed hard and long on the red button to signal that it was her who now needed assistance. 

"Nurse, I need a urine test right now please."