my life is a testimony
A long time ago, before I became a webgirl, before I even really knew what the internet was, I went through some drama. If I hadn't blogged about it before, I will later, or add a link to point to the blog, but right now that drama is not the point. When I was going through the drama, a friend forwarded an email to me. A message that I really needed to hear. I barely knew then how to even check my email...lol. But I managed, and read it, and it subtly changed me.
The email was pretty simple, a standard spam. And while I know somewhere, in hard copy, I still have it...it escapes me exactly where. But I do remember the gist of its message.
Right at this moment, somewhere out in this world...
someone is thinking about you and smiling...
someone is sad, because they miss you...
someone wants to talk to you...
someone remembers that you make them laugh...
someone thinks you give great hugs...
someone believes you're smarter than you think you are...
Anyway, it touched my heart, because I was pretty depressed at the time, and feeling pretty bad about myself. And I realized that no matter how desperate my situation was, someone out there loved me.
Looking back & thinking about it, I find other meanings in the message. The idea that people are watching you, and some people are emulating you. They look at your life from a completely different perspective, and no matter what you think...they may want to be in your shoes, because your shoes are prettier, or more comfortable, or already broken-in, or the heel may appear to be higher/lower. For whatever reason, your life/mylife can be a testimony to someone...
I try to be the best person I can...to feed my spirit, and to ease my own mind. At times, I think it brings me closer to the purpose that God has for me. At other times, I just do it to avoid ulcers, high blood pressure, and stress. Rarely does it cross my mind that my life may influence the path of someone observing me. Yet, I know that many people's paths...my friends & family, co-workers, internet friends...even the homeless person I have a singular chance encounter with...have influenced mine. I'm greatful that I "got" that, before I was too old to appreciate it.
Sunday, August 18, 2002
Tuesday, August 13, 2002
we've come so far...
I sit, twisting my hair, typing and thinking. My hair, a loose connection to a past I'll never truly know, and I'm just realizing trying to capture. 200 years ago, I imagine some great-ancestor of mine, slowly, painfully, tiredly twisting her hair in an ancient bedtime ritual. To not twist, meaning a mixture of harsh sunlight, sweat & dirt creating a tangled bedtime mixture impossible to comb. To twist, creating pretty black coils, occasionally let down for the enjoyment of some fleeting husband-lover. I think, "would she let it down briefly for him to touch, and redo it before she went to bed? or take it down and leave it all night long, his small treasure, and put it back up in the morning?"
Funny, how all things come full circle. Here I sit, slave to none except a demanding lifestyle, twisting my hair as she did. Am I freer than she? Hahahaha...let me quit my job, and relinquish these material possessions and see. Sometimes I have a Black Panther Moment, think to myself that my colleagues and I are little better than a bunch of house niggas, debating intellectually about "protecting company assets" and "retaining your stock" and "showing the company your loyatly"...how silly. We're arguing about making contributions to the "right" organizations, creating the "proper" political affiliations, making sure that we work "long & hard" so that our "efforts are appreciated". I have a much better understanding of why the Panthers resented the bourgeoisie so much. They stole the movement's fire, took the momentum out of it, with their placating words about "working within the system". The system still oppresses us, and yet we still feed the corporate machine, with our manipulations, machinations, scheming, and political correctness. We still try so hard to assimilate, that we convince ourselves that our mere presence is enough to change the way things are.
My hair's only half twisted now, more typing than twisting, ha. Back to my original train, I still wonder about that connection. Would I, could I have survived? Sunrise, fielding and picking, shoveling and sweating. No sense of stability, hope no more than to hold onto your family, husband-lover, children only until they got big enough to be work-worthy? We clung to each other then, cleaved onto our soulmate, and held on for dear, precious life, because that was the little solace we had. Now, I cleave onto my cellphone, and hope Mr. Loverman calls. I wonder what our ancestors think about that?
And my sisters, lawd. I know that some, most maybe, think of me as little more than a pickaninny. A throwback to the early 1900's, to when we couldn't keep our hair straight, or only those who could afford it did. Before Madame Walker, and The Lye. I picture myself there, and see the connection again...the reactions I get now, the stares, the chatter. Lawd, they rarely wait until I can get outta earshot. It used to bother me. Now, only occasionally. I think it sad mostly, for most assume that I can't afford straight (not true), can't afford weave (also not true), or care so little about my appearance that I'm willing to settle for, well this. That, which is more untrue than most. I have moments when I love my hair, and moments when I don't want to be bothered with it. But rarely a moment when I want it straight. And for those moments, I have a straightening comb, and Mrs. Lillian's phone numbers (oh she will ole skool fry, dye & lay to the side, don't play).
3/4 twisted, and my thoughts are returning to the present. I didn't change my hair to make a political statement. I just wanted to get rid of the perm, to let my hair grow. So did concsiousness creep up on me? Or am I still the same shallow, materialistic chick I ever was, wrapped up in a naptural, concsious shell? Who knows? I just know I have about 5 twists to go...
I sit, twisting my hair, typing and thinking. My hair, a loose connection to a past I'll never truly know, and I'm just realizing trying to capture. 200 years ago, I imagine some great-ancestor of mine, slowly, painfully, tiredly twisting her hair in an ancient bedtime ritual. To not twist, meaning a mixture of harsh sunlight, sweat & dirt creating a tangled bedtime mixture impossible to comb. To twist, creating pretty black coils, occasionally let down for the enjoyment of some fleeting husband-lover. I think, "would she let it down briefly for him to touch, and redo it before she went to bed? or take it down and leave it all night long, his small treasure, and put it back up in the morning?"
Funny, how all things come full circle. Here I sit, slave to none except a demanding lifestyle, twisting my hair as she did. Am I freer than she? Hahahaha...let me quit my job, and relinquish these material possessions and see. Sometimes I have a Black Panther Moment, think to myself that my colleagues and I are little better than a bunch of house niggas, debating intellectually about "protecting company assets" and "retaining your stock" and "showing the company your loyatly"...how silly. We're arguing about making contributions to the "right" organizations, creating the "proper" political affiliations, making sure that we work "long & hard" so that our "efforts are appreciated". I have a much better understanding of why the Panthers resented the bourgeoisie so much. They stole the movement's fire, took the momentum out of it, with their placating words about "working within the system". The system still oppresses us, and yet we still feed the corporate machine, with our manipulations, machinations, scheming, and political correctness. We still try so hard to assimilate, that we convince ourselves that our mere presence is enough to change the way things are.
My hair's only half twisted now, more typing than twisting, ha. Back to my original train, I still wonder about that connection. Would I, could I have survived? Sunrise, fielding and picking, shoveling and sweating. No sense of stability, hope no more than to hold onto your family, husband-lover, children only until they got big enough to be work-worthy? We clung to each other then, cleaved onto our soulmate, and held on for dear, precious life, because that was the little solace we had. Now, I cleave onto my cellphone, and hope Mr. Loverman calls. I wonder what our ancestors think about that?
And my sisters, lawd. I know that some, most maybe, think of me as little more than a pickaninny. A throwback to the early 1900's, to when we couldn't keep our hair straight, or only those who could afford it did. Before Madame Walker, and The Lye. I picture myself there, and see the connection again...the reactions I get now, the stares, the chatter. Lawd, they rarely wait until I can get outta earshot. It used to bother me. Now, only occasionally. I think it sad mostly, for most assume that I can't afford straight (not true), can't afford weave (also not true), or care so little about my appearance that I'm willing to settle for, well this. That, which is more untrue than most. I have moments when I love my hair, and moments when I don't want to be bothered with it. But rarely a moment when I want it straight. And for those moments, I have a straightening comb, and Mrs. Lillian's phone numbers (oh she will ole skool fry, dye & lay to the side, don't play).
3/4 twisted, and my thoughts are returning to the present. I didn't change my hair to make a political statement. I just wanted to get rid of the perm, to let my hair grow. So did concsiousness creep up on me? Or am I still the same shallow, materialistic chick I ever was, wrapped up in a naptural, concsious shell? Who knows? I just know I have about 5 twists to go...
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