I tried on a new dress today.

It spoke to me when I first saw it online and it hit the model about mid-knee. It hugged her curves in all the right places, and I thought it would look nice on my hips, so I bought it. I put it on and thought ‘damn woman, you lookin’ good’ while admiring how the dress held my waist (getting smaller, thanks Zumba, Pilates and Flirty Girl Abs and Booty workout) and accentuated my hips and butt. Hell, I thought I looked pretty damn sexy in the dress but no sooner had that thought hit me did my mind turn to whether or not it was ‘too’ sexy and whether it would attract the wrong type of attention. What is the wrong type of attention? The type that objectifies women and turns them into nothing more than a body created to satisfy a man’s sexual desire.

Why should I have to think about what a man will think about when I step into a room? I suppose I don’t have to think about what a man thinks but the reality is there are a lot of perverts out there who are either dangerous (physically), who may have some kind of power over you (professionally) or who might just invade your space with come-ons and cat calls (or worse) and I feel it is prudent to think about these things when I step out. It would be nice though to feel hot because I want to feel hot and not feel like if I choose to put on a sexy dress I am somehow inviting someone to think of me as less than a complete woman equipped with intelligence and a whole gamut of psychological and emotional characteristics.

And of course my mind, being the racehorse that it is turned to what I considered the next logical thing: for her own safety it seems a woman must conceal her sexuality. Really? I very much enjoy my ladies only dance sessions where I am free to dance in a way that accentuates my femininity, and don’t know why somehow to many folks I as a woman should hide this part of me because if I do, I’m likely to be considered less of a woman or a lady. Sometimes, I like wearing tight clothes and it has nothing to do with trying to capture the attention of the opposite, I just like to see and celebrate my hips for goodness sake!

As a woman I am many things and have many facets; my sexuality is one facet that society says it is not okay to publicly acknowledge. To society a woman is not a true lady unless she removes parts of herself: she must not be sexual, she must not be loud. She is to submit and not be noticed. She is to support and nurture. I think it’s all such bullshit.

Nobody should tell me how to define myself nor should I have to face any repercussions should my behaviour or image or whatever go outside the scope of the standards set by society. Back in the real world though I see and hear people subjected to different labels and not considered for certain things both personally and professionally because they don’t have ‘the look’ or don’t behave in a certain way regardless of their intelligence. And while we can reject society’s expectations we must accept the potential consequences of doing: because freedom has a cost and we don’t live in the world by ourselves. Does this seem fair to you, to have to pay to exist in your naturalness?

Being a woman feels like it should be such an honour but sometimes it feels like being caged within your own body. This balancing act of existence can sometimes feel like such a burden but therein lies success (I think). This being a woman thing is so exhausting! Let’s try to support each other shall we?

Power to the women who don’t give a shit about the consequences; I admire you. You are beautiful and sexy and entirely yourself, and I salute you!

#women #embraceyourself #sexuality

I tried on a new dress today.

It spoke to me when I first saw it online and it hit the model about mid-knee. It hugged her curves in all the right places, and I thought it would look nice on my hips, so I bought it. I put it on and thought ‘damn woman, you lookin’ good’ while admiring how the dress held my waist (getting smaller, thanks Zumba, Pilates and Flirty Girl Abs and Booty workout) and accentuated my hips and butt. Hell, I thought I looked pretty damn sexy in the dress but no sooner had that thought hit me did my mind turn to whether or not it was ‘too’ sexy and whether it would attract the wrong type of attention. What is the wrong type of attention? The type that objectifies women and turns them into nothing more than a body created to satisfy a man’s sexual desire.

Why should I have to think about what a man will think about when I step into a room? I suppose I don’t have to think about what a man thinks but the reality is there are a lot of perverts out there who are either dangerous (physically), who may have some kind of power over you (professionally) or who might just invade your space with come-ons and cat calls (or worse) and I feel it is prudent to think about these things when I step out. It would be nice though to feel hot because I want to feel hot and not feel like if I choose to put on a sexy dress I am somehow inviting someone to think of me as less than a complete woman equipped with intelligence and a whole gamut of psychological and emotional characteristics.

And of course my mind, being the racehorse that it is turned to what I considered the next logical thing: for her own safety it seems a woman must conceal her sexuality. Really? I very much enjoy my ladies only dance sessions where I am free to dance in a way that accentuates my femininity, and don’t know why somehow to many folks I as a woman should hide this part of me because if I do, I’m likely to be considered less of a woman or a lady. Sometimes, I like wearing tight clothes and it has nothing to do with trying to capture the attention of the opposite, I just like to see and celebrate my hips for goodness sake!

As a woman I am many things and have many facets; my sexuality is one facet that society says it is not okay to publicly acknowledge. To society a woman is not a true lady unless she removes parts of herself: she must not be sexual, she must not be loud. She is to submit and not be noticed. She is to support and nurture. I think it’s all such bullshit.

Nobody should tell me how to define myself nor should I have to face any repercussions should my behaviour or image or whatever go outside the scope of the standards set by society. Back in the real world though I see and hear people subjected to different labels and not considered for certain things both personally and professionally because they don’t have ‘the look’ or don’t behave in a certain way regardless of their intelligence. And while we can reject society’s expectations we must accept the potential consequences of doing: because freedom has a cost and we don’t live in the world by ourselves. Does this seem fair to you, to have to pay to exist in your naturalness?

Being a woman feels like it should be such an honour but sometimes it feels like being caged within your own body. This balancing act of existence can sometimes feel like such a burden but therein lies success (I think). This being a woman thing is so exhausting! Let’s try to support each other shall we?

Power to the women who don’t give a shit about the consequences; I admire you. You are beautiful and sexy and entirely yourself, and I salute you!

#women #embraceyourself #sexuality

He wasn’t at all surprised where they now stood, remembering instantly what a crazy bitch she was…and why he left her in the first place.

“This isn’t going to change anything Maria,” he said, fear and anger barely concealed in his voice. “Starting over won’t change anything for us.”

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 1 Corinthians 13:4-8

What does that mean exactly because I don’t know if I believe that right now. Maybe once, but not now.

The ones that ‘love’ you are very self-seeking. They want you to drop everything and be there for them, they want you to give when you yourself are in need, they want you to comfort when you are in pain. They don’t care what type of condition you are in, because its about them.

Love is not patient, it wants and it wants now. It doesn’t care if your sick or depressed, it only cares about itself and what it needs from you.

Love is not kind, it doesn’t take care of you when you are sick, show concern when you are sad or work on making you feel better. That only happens in the movies, it doesn’t happen in real life.

Love is jealous as hell and wants to be your only object of affection. It sure does envy when you spend your time with something or someone else. It feels unimportant when you do, and does not try to make you feel important either.

It is not self-seeking? Really? It doesn’t want you when it wants, how it wants, where it wants? It doesn’t want you to do what it wants regardless of the consequences to yourself? It doesn’t dishonor others when it doesn’t get what it wants? Really?

It is not easily angered and doesn’t hold a grudge? Are you kidding me? Weren’t you the one who remembers shit from years ago and reminds me about them every now and then love? Aren’t you the one who I must walk on egg shells with lest I inadvertently hurt your feelings? Aren’t you the one who would rather me tell a sweet lie than the awful truth?

Do you protect me love or do you hurt me? For sure you don’t trust me, and it seems like you are always on the brink of giving up on me…

I don’t know, I thought you were love. If you’re not love, then…

WHO ARE YOU?

#LoveHurts #Love #Pain

It’s him, looking as sexy as ever. I could tell from the wrinkles on his brow that he had a long hard day, but his mood never changed my attraction to him. Actually, all I want to do is hold him and let him know everything was going to be alright. I move just a little closer to him on the train so I could breathe in the musky scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat and feel slightly light-headed being this close to him. I stumble ever so slightly to brush my body against his and finally feel his chiseled body against mine. Oh my God! It feels better than I ever thought it would. I step away as I regain my composure and notice a little smile play across his thick lips. It only confirms what I already know in my heart, we were meant to be together. As I follow him off the train, I know that soon I will have the courage to ‘bump’ into him at the coffee shop he goes to everyday and ask him out. But for now, I’ll just enjoy this sexy-as-hell man from a distance.

Does the scene above describe the thoughts of an obsessed person or someone who is in love with someone they haven’t yet spoken to? I don’t think it is easy to interpret the answer to that question. Obsession is often a matter of perspective and can sometimes be interpreted as love. Its interpretation is usually dependent on the object of attention and the observer, not to mention the interpreter of the scenario. For example, if the observer above is a woman would you consider her actions sweet? If it’s a man, does it become a bit more creepy? The scenario automatically becomes significantly more disturbing if the scenario includes an adult observer and a child object doesn’t it? Does it become less so if the scenario occurs between two young children?

Let’s take the scenario further and imagine that the observer and object meet and hit it off. Now they are dating and the object is thinking about the observer consistently. They both want to be together every spare moment they have. Are they in love with each other or are they obsessed with one another? This sounds to me like how most of us would describe falling in love; at least in the early stages of the relationship. So how do we define obsession and clearly differentiate it from love? Is there a clear answer? I believe it is an important question to answer; especially in this age of #metoo. I doubt however, that all people that obsess about other people are actually aware that what they are doing can be called obsession; they might just think they are in love.

At the end of the day, I’m not 100 percent sure the label we apply to the feeling is as important as understanding the danger of any type of extreme thought about anything and the rightness or wrongness of the behaviour that might result because of it. We must therefore consider teaching our sons and daughters the importance of respecting other people and the appropriateness of certain thoughts and actions. It is after all difficult for a person to identify when his or her thoughts have crossed a line of normalcy into the danger zone of obsession, which could quite easily lead to inappropriate or dangerous behavior. These discussions are worth having regardless of how uncomfortable they may be or how obvious we think certain behaviors or thoughts are. Once we talk about obsession openly we can define it and handle it appropriately.

*Some details in this dream are graphic.

I walked through the slightly dense forest between two villages, a tall but lean woman with a milk chocolate complexion. It was a warm day and the wind blew across my bare breasts as the sweat trickled between them like the river I had just visited. A couple of my village sisters were out fetching water like I was, and we were engaged in light conversation like we always were on these types of errands.

As we approached the outskirts of the village I felt something was wrong and slowed my pace. As we drew nearer, I noticed a strange commotion in the distance. The first glimpses of a number of my people, tied single-file and facing the north grew larger in my vision. Defeat was written on many of their faces and the scent of fear was very heavy in the air. I stood still at that moment as I realized we were being rounded up like cattle and were about to be taken…somewhere. As I remained frozen in terror one of my sisters looked at me, willing me to move but her captor soon noticed the source of her attention; smiling the very smile of evil as he eyed me as a predator eyes his prey. I turned to run only to realize that two of his colleagues were almost on top of me, and it was not long before each had one of my wrists in their hands. I struggled but it was useless to do so. It was the first time I had felt so powerless, but there was more to come on this journey to slavery.

I was bound to my sisters and we all made our way to the next stage in our journey. Each step took us further and further away from hope. Despair wormed its way to the destination through our bodies and abject fear, maybe even terror about what came next, rendered us silent. After hours and hours of walking with little rest, sores forming at the bottom of our feet, we reached a clearing that was bordered by trees. I looked at the clearing and thought to myself, this is where I will die. And there on a wooden stage in the centre of the clearing, I could hear the screams of the souls who died there before us.

There were about a dozen white men there, looking at us cheerfully as we approached. My sisters and I were lined up on stage hands tied behind our backs, stink with the sweat of our hard journey with our heads hung low. Our captor took great pleasure in having each one of us approach the front of the stage and forcing us to turn around so the buyers could get a 360 degree view of the merchandise. It is there that I lost my humanity and became chattel.

He pulled me forward to the edge of the stage. He walked around me, his eyes penetrating me before his hands ever could. “This is a most fine specimen” he said, looking at me as a lion would eye an antelope. What happened next ripped my soul right out of me. He placed a chair in the front of the stage and forced me to sit in it, pulling my legs open to fully expose me to the crowd. The tears flowed down my face as the men cheered and my captor forced his fingers inside of me. “See?” he said. “This one will serve any of you well, her pussy is tight and feels good, even on my fingers!” He burst out laughing and the crowd roared with cheer at the sight of his actions. Uncontrollably, I squirted on the stage and cheers rolled on to the stage. As the liquid flowed out of me, so did my soul.

There was no better way to hollow out my very humanity than to take control of my very body and its functions. After this I lost my power and was no more.

I awoke.

I sat across the table from one of the most inspirational women I had ever known. She had a kind and beautiful face set in caramel skin with shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked at me with the depth of the cosmos in her eyes and wore a simple rust colored blouse and a loose, knee length skirt with chocolate brown and white patterns throughout. Her style was simple yet revealed her thick hips and feminine shape to anyone who glanced her way. I last saw her about 30 years ago and she wore the exact same outfit, at least I think she did. Our relationship then was different, it was extremely personal at that time. Now, time and space has transformed her into a literary legend in the Virgin Islands. She was one of the late, great poets of the 80's, Sheila Hyndman.

Awkwardly, I asked, "Do you drink beer?"

She threw back her head and laughed then, "yes Dierdra, I drink beer."

I didn't drink beer, but I ordered two; one for her and one for myself. I would've done anything at that point to connect with her more deeply and sipped on the awful tasting thing, the awe of being in her presence transforming it into ambrosia.

"There's a lot I want to ask you and don't know how or where to start" I said, nervously looking at my fingers and avoiding eye contact to contain the swell of emotion inside me.

"Keep it light," she replied. "Don't go too deep, not now."

"Okay" I said, "You've always seemed so very connected to the earth and to our ancestors somehow. I've always felt like you were rooted in Africa though you had never been there. How did you do that without setting foot on the continent or knowing which country you are from?"

"That's you not going too deep?" she laughed. "I grew up in a different world than you did. I didn't have a whole lot of TV to distract me from nature. When you pay attention to nature, you grow roots there. And in nature abides my ancestors. Do you understand?" she asked, looking up and into my soul with her earth coloured eyes.

"Yes, I think so," I responded.

"Do you really?" she says, peering deeper into my eyes. After a short moment, she gently says "You do, you just keep second guessing yourself. Be with nature and you will root yourself to the earth of your ancestors, and to me."

We sat in silence for a while, completely oblivious to the sounds of conversation all around us at the bar.

As if I were about to burst open, I quickly say, "I feel like I am obligated to write in memory of you. Like it is something I can do to keep you alive, why do I feel this way? Is writing in my blood? In anybody's blood? There was more than one writer in the family so I was just wondering how you felt about it. Would you be mad if I chose not to write? Are you mad at me for not writing all these years?"

"I'm not mad at you," she said gently touching my arm, "you're not obligated to do anything in this life Dierdra. But the writing calls to you, like it called to me. It is ours and we belong to it. We are storytellers and our tool is voice. It's not in your blood, it's in your soul. I only wish that you would be courageous enough to embrace all of who you are without fear or worry about anything else. You will find great peace once you do."

At that moment I understood that she knew my struggle between being myself and doing what was necessary to be successful for my family. I knew then, that she thought I was important enough to pay attention to. I had wondered until that point how we would communicate since I was only 8 years old when we last spoke. I barely recognize my 8 year old self now that I am past 35 and thought she would would not recognize me. But at that moment, I realized she knew me and she was not only Sheila Hyndman author and beloved poet, she was also my mother.

"I miss you mommy" I whispered.

"I know," she replied with a loving smile.

There were no words to express the emotion that filled the silence thereafter, and we both knew that to speak would diminish its meaning. Instead, we looked toward the sea immersed in the present, hoping to cling to its tendrils for as long as the moment would allow.

#mommy's girl

#Virgin Islands poet

#I Miss You Mommy