Red on Black

When I was let loose into the world of adolescent independence, colour was almost non-existent. The clothes I wore, the styles I chose circumnavigated: brown, black, grey and the occasional safety net: white.  Dare I try any other colour; I would have to subject my sister to a barrage of webcam sessions, pictures and questions on whether I looked ridiculously freakish.  When I failed to be satisfied, I rang the girlfriends, and much to their chagrin, held crisis talks. Having colour in my wardrobe was as a fearful experience.

Contrast to present days where I embrace colour: pinks, blues, yellows, purples, shades of ambiguous beige-orange.  It’s all exciting and pleasant, but red is a colour that still makes me chuckle.

My mother plays it safe with neutral colours. Bright colours, particularly red is something that she says doesn’t suit her style or personality. I would say perhaps my fear of colour came from my mother, but I’d be lying. I was always a wallflower; I exuded shyness and anti-social tendencies. Colour was attention-grabbing, something I obviously shunned by holding my index fingers in the form of a cross.

Red holds memories for me. Even before I delved into the wonderful hues which represented my adolescent liberties, I experimented with red, surreptitiously with a sense of cheap and quiet thrill.

I remember when I had my first kiss at 17 and began seeing him regularly, he asked: “So do you wear thongs?” I tilted my head to the side in confusion, the quickly nodded. Thongs? I had no idea where they fitted in the Christian realm and even more, are the comfortable? Are they safe? Do they attract the wrong type of guy? Is he right for asking me? Should I be offended?  I had never worn one as I didn’t see it was relevant to being 17. But emotionally naïve and willing to please, I went to the nearest shop and bought a Red Thong for $5. I was so scared of someone recognising me or asking me for ID or worse: “You go to the Church just down the street don’t you?” All sorts of scenarios of humiliation played and when it went well, I clutched it tight, and took care of it myself.

It was the first I owned and wore it exclusively for our make-out sessions, even though he later never asked or ventured into that arena.  But eventually, I loved it. I felt sexy, electric and had long dreams of him touching the lace and declaring his love for me.  Red was erotic, & heavy with virginal longing for sensual kisses and movie-type love.  Red introduced me to romantic delusions of relationships.  Most days I regret having such idealistic notions of romance, other days I remember being young and doped up with so much passionate expectation of romance & sex.

When I first entered the arena of “The Red Dress”, it was a similar experience, except of being fearful, I swayed my hips and arched my back with stealth confidence. The Red Dress made men turn heads, and women drool with questions and compliments: Where did you get that dress? OMG! I love it!  It was a different overwhelming experience. I was proud of my curves. I tapped my breasts like they had played well on the field: Good job Girls!  I knew I looked jaw-droppingly awesome, but in the same breath, I was afraid someone would blow my cover by entering the room with the same one on, wearing it better and sleeker.  The Red Dress was iconic, but sadly it hangs in the back of my wardrobe. The Old Fear creeping back, taunting my hips, my tummy: “People might object to it this time around, M.”

Two months ago, my friend suggested I try red lipstick. I looked at her in horror: Red? I don’t know which was worst, being pushed into the forefront of people’s attention or having to stare at a potentially new feeling I might experience. Luckily, what I saw, I found repulsive. I couldn’t pull off red lipstick. I sighed with relief.

Today, I got a free lipstick in a makeup order. It sits on my dresser and taunts me. Red Lipstick, the epitome of sensuality for a woman. Smooth, lustrous and tempting, it’s still sitting on my dresser.  There’s also the added pressure, Can a black woman pull off red lipstick? Conflicted on simply the representation of my womanhood. When I decide to wear it, I’ll take a photo and maybe welcome it as a new dimension to myself. Till then, we both wait.

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Haitian Flag Day

“Catherine Flon was the god-daughter of Jean Jacques Dessalines and played a huge role in the Haitian Revolution as a nurse. She is not really remembered and revered as nurse, but widely recognized in all Haiti as a heroine for sewing the first Haitian Flag in Archaie and a national symbol of freedom.

The blue was taken to represent Haiti’s black citizens and the red the gens de couler (people of colour). The coat of arms depicts a trophy of weapons ready to defend freedom and a royal palm for independence. The palm is topped by the Cap of Liberty. The motto is on a white scroll reading L’Union Fait La Force (Unity Makes Strength)”

To the ancestors who bore the whips and bricks of slavery and led us to freedom, I salute you. We raise our heads high, we’ll never forget our ancestors & strengthen our backs to build our country with stern diligence and complete reverence.

With new promises, and new dreams, Haiti, you are endeared, you are inspiration, you are my blood.

Koté Haïtienne yo? 

Source: http://www.hougansydney.com/haitian-heroes.php

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Babies

Source:http://www.etsy.com/shop/BabaMoon

I found a baby.

Online, looking adorable and staring up with bulbous innocence.

I never felt overly inclined to have children, but looking at this photo, I want one exactly like this, bunny ears included.

I guess the maternal clock has begun ticking.

Pray for me.

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How to love a woman

“You may not be her first, her last, or her only.  She loved before she may love again.  But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect – you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can.

She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break – her heart.  So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.”

- Bob Marley

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A run of the mill.

He called me Slim.

Slim.

No one has ever called me Slim. Except for that one time when I weighed 135lbs and I looked truly Slim and my dad said I looked like a bobble-head toy.

But today? I don’t consider myself Slim. I don’t consider myself anywhere near the term Slim.  This isn’t self-deprecation. I’ll let you know when I’m blatantly self-deprecating. But today, I’m being a factist.

I looked over at him and asked: Why would you even say that? I’m not Slim.

He said: You’re exactly my type: curvy & Slim.

I still remained perplexed. People’s perception of size & beauty obviously vary, and this man’s perception is an evident testament.  I fail to mention, that he had been drinking before he admitted his arousal of my Slim body.

That word plagued my brain for the rest of the evening and I didn’t know how to bounce back. Laud in the term as a genuine compliment or shun it as a disingenuous means of getting into the Lady Mound?

Either way, I went to the Scale for enlightened guidance.

It sat in the hallway with a halo of remnant light shining on its LCD. Magnificent.  I cleaned it and it revived.

I stepped on it, no shoes, no bra and it replied: ERR.

I gave it a moment and tried again: ERR.

I gave up and decided, the Scale couldn’t deliver the difficult news. I strapped up my running shoes and ran till my calves gave up and I fell. I looked up and brushed myself off and ran again. I lasted 30 minutes, found a green area of shrubbery and sat.

Slim.

What is it the idea of perfect, pert, small bodies that remains so alluring? So envious? The conscious moral mind wants discipline and moderation: You’re eating pizza? *Gasp* For shame! Think about your arteries! Your veins! Acne and bloating?!?! Woman what are you doing?

Food obsession & calorie counting has become the norm: the Lifestyle and I desperately try to cling to, yet my body seems to mock. “Embrace your curves! You are voluptuous! I don’t WANT to digest a caterpillar’s snack, give the lion’s share!”

But body, surely you jest, I NEED to be Slim. Isn’t that when I’m most attractive?

I run some more, fatigued, I crashed onto my bed: unshowered jog funk still looming. Satisfied and experiencing a high, I forgot to dispose of my vices, damn! Because while I laid in self-indulgent glory, my eyes met the Slim, delicious smirk of the Toblerone.

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