These posts are a celebration of life and the pursuit of a dream.....and big hair.
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IT GETS THE PEOPLE GOIN’!!
Interesting story I thought I’d share based off an Aniviel Lynn post on the Ol’ Facebook. She always gets my mind workin’ (whether she means to or not; never change).
A young child who just so happens to be black (he might have been named Jamar) was playing recess in Hawaii. Everyday, he’d circle up with the other boys and they’d pretend to be The Power Rangers like on the popular show.
One faithful day, the Green Ranger had just debuted on the show. This child knew from the moment he saw him; he was gonna call being The Green Ranger that next day. It’s all he could think about when he went to sleep, his first 3 classes, until finally it was that day and it was time to pick.
His turn came around.
"I WANNA BE THE GREEN RANGER!"
"No," one of his classmates said sternly. Jamar was confused. He looked to his playmate and inevitably asked, "Why?"
"You’re black! Only the Black Ranger is BLACK. It’s not right. You can’t do that! You can’t be black and be Spider-Man or Superman! So why him?!"
Jamar’s mom told him he could be anyone he wanted to be. So did his teachers. But apparently, in this land of make believe, you’re only as super as your skin color allows. This didn’t feel fun at all. He’d never been more ashamed to be brown. No one argued and Jamar kept his mouth shut.
He didn’t play that day. That bus ride home, he realized Iron Man, Masked Rider, and even Batman were off limits because his chocolate skin didn’t fit the description.
Jamar used to think there was something wrong with him. Then he realized as he got older, maybe there was something wrong with them.
I live in a world where the role is determined by the character of that person. I’d rather see you for your eyes, or your voice, or your style, or your thoughts. I’d hope they remember the person of me, proud in his skin; but never defined by it.
I could categorize you by your skin; but then who is that helping? And what does that say of me when it’s the first thing I see?
I’d rather see your cape than your color.
SILK DRAWERS AND A RED TIE?! Oh, I’ve got to wear these together. #Classic #LowDownDirtyShame
[FOREWORD:In an effort to make use of talents beyond just wearing tights; I’ve decided to expand upon one of them in the form of introspective writing. This originally was a submission for Thought Catalog. They have a 2 week policy where if you get no response, it goes unpublished and don’t resubmit. Sadly, I caught two spelling errors in the original submission.
But I’ve decided that even my “failures” still can find life. So as I continue to write; the works that go unpublished will find their way here until there comes a day where that’s not the case. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy and find something inside yourself after reading this. Laters.]
Show It To Me
I don’t want to sound forward, but I’m not much for games. I’m just going to come out and say it. Ready?
Show it to me.
Why you gotta act like that? It’s just me and you. An A & B conversation with no C’s in sight; just a sight to see. Fair enough? Good.
Wait? You don’t know what “it” is? Maybe it’d be easier if I told you what “it” wasn’t?
It’s not your painted-on, limited edition Versace dress. Definitely not the tattoo you’ve been hiding from your dad since high school. Not the designer lipstick destined to be on a lucky man’s collar by night’s end. Your red bottom heels do nothing for me. Dig deeper.
What I want to see, you can’t get a 30 day return policy on. It’s one of the few things you don’t show off on Instagram. Your eyeliner may run, but what I want stays put.
Show me your scar.
Show me sin that marked your skin. A regret you’ll never forget. The moment of rough in your satin touch. A story telling itself in jagged detail. Your scars are the real underneath layers of brand-name smokescreen. It’s what I need to see if I want to know YOU. Hieroglyphics of a time painful lessons were taught that I hope you’d share.
Yet, you won’t.
Concealer fails to hide the shame written on your face. Tension in the air at the thought of eyes on marks you didn’t ask for. Intruder alert. Sound the alarm. Nobody asks to see scars unless they plan to make new ones. Love lockdown. Shut out. Do not pass go.
“That’ll teach him,” is what you say to yourself. That assurance fades as you’re met with an unfamiliar reaction. Understanding.
Yes, understanding. A lot of it. How could I get mad at you for staying guarded? TV, movies, magazines, and your newsfeed have taught you that no imperfection is above a filter. Photoshop makes the insecurity stop. Who wants to see you when the digital re-master is superior? Right?
Wrong. I can’t fall in love with your facsimile. Show me something real.
Show me your scar.
You spent hours on your French tips, highlights, and outfit. When you come around it’s a school zone; slow down. You’re perfect….
….until night’s end. Then the dress goes in the closet. Shoes carefully placed in their box. Makeup remover undoes the artistry on your face. Look in the mirror, what do you see?
The stab wound when you tried to leave.
The acne they can’t treat.
The C-section scar.
The razor-assisted cry for help across your wrists.
The black eye he gave you because “he loved you”.
The incision a steel plate and screws hide behind.
The stories you’re scared to tell. Your skin marked with a shame they’ll surely judge. Prince Charming doesn’t come for the princess with imperfections. That’s what we’ve learned after all. So you become the woman they want. Perfect skin and an alluring grin. She’s flawless….
No. She’s a lie. Everything I’ve been trying to avoid.
YOU are perfect. Your struggle and story are deep. The flaws make you beautifully human. Those scars are reminders that you’ve weathered a storm and survived. I’m in need of truth’s oasis in this arid desert of deception. Why hide that from me?
My fingers want to read every knick on your body like braille. Show me your sorrows and I’ll show you the courage to face them. The world is asking us to run from what we truly are, but you know what I want. A head-on collision with the romantic reality of you. All of you. From the core to the crust I refuse to cut off.
I can handle what you view as your worst. The question is: will you let me? With your permission, can I care for you with no filter? You never needed it.
You needed me. At this very moment, you’re questioning all of this. Vulnerable in a way you’ve never wanted to be again. Skin quaking like a 7.0 on the Richter with a 808 beat in your heart. Everything is telling you to run, but cement in your legs keeps you at bay. Be easy darling, that’s realization setting in.
Yes. I want you. My perfect defect that wants to believe she’s worthy.
You are. You’ve known it and you just needed the reminder. The spark that ignites a flame, barely burning. Don’t be afraid of the future. Volumes of untold stories are etched on your skin. Let’s start from the beginning and pray we never find the end.
Is that alright?
Show me your scar.
All of you.
Wanted to take a word to speak on Hiroto Fukunaga.
ISW’s Mike Rotch brought him to my attention after this very talented artist was shafted on payment for various art designs.
That’s a shame. After seeing what he could do, I went to him and paid his very reasonable price for two designs. I’m blown away to no end. The level of quality, professionalism, and speed he took in his work was staggering. Rare you get all those together.
I’m hoping if you’re looking for an awesome standard in art, you check him out. Worth every penny and I feel terrible for those missing out on work of this quality. Thanks, Hiroto! I’ll be back!
PS….Expect posters and shirts on the way ;)
Ladies, I’m hittin’ you 911 on the pager. #HitMeBack #PickItUpSoICanPutItDown