Half of it all.

Sibling! (Photo credit: Gus Dahlberg)

I’m overly logical.

I state the facts.

Facts and concrete evidence are comforting ideals.

The problem with facts is that not everyone appreciates the truth or the facts of a situation.

And this isn’t a criticism of what choose to accept or reject. Many truths are marred with malice, but not all.

Facts and truths are more than just that; they govern how I view situation or tackle a relationship.

I have many friends who share the same sentiment.

My one friend has several half-siblings, many who she’s met quite late in life. Many who she’s happily gotten along with and some she hasn’t. But in it all, she’s always introduced them and regarded them as her half-siblings.

Recently, one of her brothers had a heated argument. He hated how he’s viewed as the “half-brother” and decided to attack her for this. The argument lead to immature name calling.

We sat and discussed it. I agreed with her logic: he was her half-brother.  Yes they had the same father, but they didn’t share entire upbringings, morals etc. He was half of it all.

She even confessed to only mildly caring about him and his well-being.

I can’t dictate the extent to which you can care for a sibling. I just agree with the facts and I don’t find the fact repulsive or appalling. Judging someone on the extent they care for another isn’t in my interest.

If a sibling labelled me or introduced me as half, I honestly wouldn’t flinch. Why? Because it’s the truth. It’s not malicious intent.  Some people are different. Maybe the psychology of the brother wanted a whole family unit, something he lacked within his own childhood. Perhaps in the grand scheme of things, he refused to see or acknowledge half-truths or half-families.

Love and family unions run deeper than the mere 25% she happens to share with him. Bonding and caring about another person is what makes families so unique.

However, in the same breath, I could understand my friend’s predicament and her psychological need to state and acknowledge the facts. I can understand her candour, and I can understand his anger, but I don’t see the need for anger.

What say you?

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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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