to C or not to C?

Samuel called Monday, Mom called Wednesday, and I spoke to my father today. The question of the week has been, “Why haven’t you called your sister?”

And now they’re all disgruntled with me.

The dilemma? The conflict? My oldest sister Lisa, the one with the 15 year old daughter, got a boob job late last week, and I haven’t called. She enhanced herself to a C cup.

When my brother called me a couple of weeks ago and told me that Lisa was getting implants, it didn’t even register. I literally went about my life like I didn’t even hear it. Then he called me on Monday and asked me if I’d called her yet. I asked, “for what?” I had no idea what he was talking about. He said, “Lisa had surgery a couple of days ago you idiot!” I was dumbfounded.

He gave me crap about it on the phone. Basically the whole week went by and I still didn’t call. I couldn’t find it in my heart to do it. So uncharacteristic of me, but I’ve just had no inclination to pick up the phone. Maybe I was processing it. Maybe I was punishing her. Maybe a bit of both.

After having a disagreement on the phone with my dad an hour ago, I now realize that I haven’t called her because that is my passive-aggressive way of showing my disapproval. I didn’t know I was doing it until my dad really laid into me. Once I started explaining myself, I realized that I really don’t respect her decision, especially because of the fact that she has an impressionable 15 year old girl. I was really really upset about the message that she’s possibly sending to Bianca. I feel like our young Black youth are in trouble, especially our girls. I’m really seeing how our society’s perceptions of body image, especially the black woman’s body image and how it is exploited is affecting our girls and how it’s really becoming a determining factor in their behavior. Girls are so much more focused on their bodies and not so much on their abilities (unless the abilities include gyrating).

Just for some background on my sister: she lost a tremendous amount of weight in the last two years. She has been working really hard on her body. She went on some high protein diet, starting hitting the spinning classes 4 times a week and now she’s like a size 2; she used to be like a 14. One of those success stories. She completely changed her life. She commented that after the weight loss, her boobs looked like a pair of old house slippers (how fucking funny is that??), so she decided to do something about it.

So, with that said, I know, intellectually that my sister doesn’t live her life for me and I know it’s her body and she’s doing what she feels she has to do to improve the image she has of herself. I mean, who the fuck am I, right? I know that my feelings about this matter shouldn’t have prevented me from picking up the phone and calling my sister. She had surgery. As a sister, despite my feelings on the issue, I know I should have called her to check on her. I was wrong about that.

My whole family ganged up on me on the phone and laid it into me something serious. So, I rethought everything: yes, I should call her. And maybe I’m being too paranoid about the Bianca thing. Maybe I’m overanalyzing things. Maybe this is not affecting Bianca at all. So, I hung up with my ranting family and picked up the phone and called my sister.

Bianca answered the phone. Lisa wasn’t home. I asked Bianca how her Mom was doing, she grunted, said she was fine. I asked her how her boobs look and Bianca exploded. She was livid. She told me that she told Lisa from the very beginning that she disagreed with this decision but she didn’t listen. She said that the boobs look fake, because one day they weren’t there and now they are. She said that they spent over $6,000 on this surgery and now are claiming that they have no money to buy a replacement of Bianca’s $400 retainer that she accidentally left in a restaurant. She said that she can’t look at her mom the same way anymore and is not sure if she ever will. She has lost respect for her. She said that our family is nothing like this, that we’re natural people with no plastic and that we weren’t raised to be like this. She said that Lisa was influenced by her friends at the gym; they’ve all had boob jobs and many of them had tummy tucks. Yes, homie, Bianca went off.

I was so shocked. After hearing all of this, I realized that I have no idea who my niece is. I really forget how smart she is. This girl is sharp and sees exactly what’s going on. I honestly underestimated her. Also, I kicked myself for allowing my father to make me second guess my instincts. I knew this shit wasn’t right, that this whole thing smelled funny. He was right about me not calling, but he wasn’t right when he was trying to make light of how this was possibly affecting Bianca. He was making me start to think that I was creating problems that weren’t there. I forgot one important thing: my father is a guy. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be a little girl.

If I was a 15 year old and my mom had implants, I could take it two ways: I could think: yes, this is the solution. When you’re not happy with your body, you get surgery. Or boobs will really get guys to notice me and boobs will really help me make it in this world, etc. Or, I could say, I can’t believe my mom did that. What a floozie. Bianca, is the latter category. Bianca is disappointed in her mother. She doesn’t believe that bigger breasts makes one beautiful. And for that, I’m less worried about Bianca than I have been previously because she has analyzed this instead of becoming a product of this. On the other hand, it’s a problem when a girl loses respect for her mother. I think that’s what this has done and I hope that that can be salvaged somehow.

I realized today also that I really should be more involved in my niece’s life. I don’t correspond with her as much as I should and I realized that I have no idea where he head is at. Tonight’s conversation was the most candid conversation I’ve had with her in a really long time. It’s good to know where she is in her analytical thinking. She also shared with me that she is a godmother. I was like what????? Her 14 year old friend just had a baby. She also told me that her other friend, 15, just found out that she is pregnant. Neither of them know who the fathers of their babies are.

If all else in life fails, I know one thing: I can always count on Bianca to give me poems.

mango tequilas under bitten moons

Just came in from a wonderful night with Roger and Kristine. We’ve been talking about this triple date thing for a long time and it has finally come to fruition. We had an amazing time, and not just because tequila was involved. We ate at Chango’s, this Cuban/Mexican upper scale $18 mango ribs typa spot. It was probably one of the best burittos I’ve had in a while. I also had a mango martini, which I’ve never had before. Swiftly becoming my favorite drink and hopefully not my newest craving. Roger, Kristine and I are a great threesome. We have really fantastic conversations that make me feel really energized about things, and life in general. When we’re talking about something interesting, all of our eyes light up, and when that happens, it’s like our lives are somehow lighting up too. We talked about the illusion of objectivity, the dichotomy of a fictional character such as Hannibal Lechter, and cubist art.

I’m feeling really good about things right now, everything except for my writing. I’m single again, and I know I made the right decision. Rene and I have kept our distance from each other, though we’ve talked and text messaged. His texts have been filled with affection and deep yearning. He says he has dreamed of me. I’ve stopped dreaming of him. I landed two jobs last week and I know that I’ll be fine for the time being. One with poets and writers—I’ll be teaching a creative writing course to senior citizens. I went to the site today to meet the directors of the organization…all very nice people. It was in the Bronx…way up there. Like the last stop on the 1 train typa shit. Anyways, I liked being there and my head is swirling with ideas on what types of activities to do with the seniors when I finally get them in my clutches come april 6. Then, later on in the afternoon, I went to the site of the second job that I got at the harlem children’s aide society. I’m a program coordinator for the bridge program, which is basically working with 12-14 year olds. I’ll be planning activities for them to help them broaden their scope on this world, sharpen their critical thinking skills and their artistic skills. It’s a really great position because I can make it kind of idiosyncratic. I can essentially do what I want. I have a budget and I can take them to museums, bring in guest speakers, whatever. Plus, i’m really interested in this age group and I’m really blessed that I’ll be working with them, college students and senior citizens all at the same time.

Like I said, the only thing is my writing. I just don’t know what’s happening. My body, my intellect, my spirit is a stirring pot. things are happening inside of me. Things are shifting, evolving, breaking out of themselves, morphing, doing all of these hurtful and wonderful things, but the pen can’t seem to capture any of it. And because I haven’t written anything that I’ve been happy with for a while, I’m placing too much pressure on the poem that is taking its time to come out right now. This poem about the Venus hotentot has been churning in me for months now. Now, its beginning to simmer and boil but I’m placing too much pressure on it to be good, because I want this poem to save me in ways that I may not really need to be saved. Damn, does that make any sense? We want to be saved from the art of failure, from the fear of talent loss. And if I write a good poem right now, I’ll be saved from the time being. How can a poem live itself out, and be itself under such pressure? I know this intellectually, but I’m still doing it. And, on top of that, I’m menstruating and I have this red ribbon pact that I really want to fulfill. So, what I really have to do is just chill out and let the poem ooze out as slowly and painfully as it needs to.

Menstruation is such a beautiful thing. This time around in particular, I’ve been so in tuned and so in love with everything about it. Yesterday, I felt so in much in my body, it was unreal. Because of that slow, often painful churn in my stomach, instead of popping a pill to alleviate the pain, obliterate it, I crawled inside of the pain, went to the source. As a result, even though I was in several public places (subway, bar 13’s poetry reading), I was completely and utterly in my body and loving it. Something that I could have gotten rid of became a source of empowerment. This is one of those things that I can never teach my daughter, or anybody. It’s something that I’ve learned to do and am glad for it. The power of changing your mind is as easy as it is amazing. Like every other girl, I used to think menstruation was disgusting. The ruby elixir on your pad, the smell unlike any other in the world, that torturous churn. Like Lucille Clifton says, “clots like you wouldn’t believe.” Now, all of that which I found ugly is now so unequivocally beautiful. All I did was change my mind. There’s a power in that that we often disregard. Really, more difficult in theory than it is in practice.

elevator doors

Rene came over late late Saturday night, after work. I opened the door, drowsy and taciturn. He was so happy to see me. He kissed me on the cheek sweetly and his smile was so large and his eyes were shining like black moons in a hot-white sky. The contrasts in our moods hurt me because I couldn’t help the way I was feeling. I just couldn’t pretend that I was still attracted to and happy with this man.

We’ve been so disconnected lately. We’ve both sensed it and we talked about it some earlier in the week, on Wednesday. He was so open-hearted about the conversation. I told him that I was feeling unchallenged mentally/intellectually by our relationship, and that we needed to cultivate our dialogue with the same verve we’ve been using to cultivate our bedroom life, or else the bedroom life will dwindle down into dust.

After all of this, he came to my door on Saturday night with only positive energy and lush affection. All that he’s brought to this entire relationship was positive vibes. God, I wish that were enough.

I used to drink from this man’s kiss. Treated his lips, his body like borrowed time. This night, I felt disgusted kissing him. Literally, when he started to kiss me, my upper lip started itching like I was allergic to something. His tongue no longer felt like a tongue, but a slimy underground creature finding its way into my reluctant mouth. I’ve never felt this before. I hated the smell of his breath, his hands. I couldn’t even look at him. I couldn’t believe this. He’s done nothing wrong! How could attraction turn off like unpaid tap water, like a molested switch? How could such extreme pleasure turn into such extreme disgust? That night, as he grunted, I thought of all the women trapped in rotting marriages, laying under men they could no longer stand, mind elsewhere, eyes closed. For once in my life, I was all these women, and it scared the hell out of me, that this could be possible for someone’s life for 30+ years.

Afterwards, I couldn’t even cuddle. I turned away from him and he caressed and kissed my back, like a man in love. It took me a long time to fall asleep that night. I woke up well before him. I checked e-mail, read 50 pages of DaVinci Code. I made my bed, went downstairs to watch tv. Usually, I would jump on his sleeping body mid-dream and tear off his blankets and use my body as a substitute. Today, that wasn’t even an option. Later on, he came downstairs with a perplexed look on his face. I had tea and bagels waiting for him. He drank the tea but refused to eat. I knew I was hurting him but I just couldn’t find the words.

He spent all day here, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. He tried to kiss me, cuddle with me. He took a shower with me, washed my body. Just hurt love in his eyes. I remained friendly, but distant and unaffectionate. I hated myself. I felt him starting to give up, felt him slipping away. He put on his pants, his shoes. Before he left, I made him eat. I know the food tasted like ash in his mouth. I couldn’t let him leave and not resolve this. I asked him to sit down next to me. “Let’s talk,” I said.

I apologized for being so distant and weird and I told him that I was bored with our relationship. Again, he listened. We had some dialogue. Then, I told him that I couldn’t stand the smoke—the smoke of his breath and the smoke on his hands that linger between us even after he’s brushed his mouth and washed his hands. I told him that I couldn’t deal with it; that I found it very unattractive. There was not much to say after that. He said that he was going to give me my space and stop coming around. We hugged for a long time. He kissed me all over my face and told me that I’m one of the most unique, beautiful and honest women that he’d ever known and that nothing will change that. No hard feelings.

Before he left, he apologized that he had nothing to give me. If only he knew how wrong he was. I was the one with nothing to give him. He also left his door open for a reconciliation sometime in the future. He said that after me, he doesn’t think he’ll be interested in anyone else anytime soon, so I can call him whenever I need a friend, need someone to hold. I couldn’t stop crying. He remained strong, but I know he was so hurt.

I walked him to the door and as usual, I watched him walk to the elevator. Usually, he would push the button, turn around and kiss me until the elevator came. This time, he walked, pushed the button and the elevator opened right away. He walked in the elevator and didn’t look back. I closed the door, knowing that I did the right thing for both of us.