October 12, 2011

Sin Dolores

***Hello Hello... it's been awhile. Here's another short story (actually it's kinda long LOL). Just something I was feeling that I had to get out. Hope y'all enjoy it. As always feedback is appreciated!***

Sin Dolores

Fuck my life man, here she goes again. Dolores let out a sharp sigh of annoyance as she earmarked the page in the thick AP Economics book she had been reading. She shut the book harder than necessary and rolled over closer to the edge of her bed. She sat there for a minute with her head hanging forward looking down at her toned caramel legs dangling off the bed. I swear I can't do this anymore. Why does she have to start with this every time I have something important to study for? She's always goin on and on and on and on and oooon about how well she wants me to do and she's definitely just TOO damn happy to brag to anybody who will listen to her ass, when I get an A and shit. You'd think she'd learn how to hold this bullshit inside at least a little by now. Just a little! She pushed her untamed, thick, mid-back length, perfectly spiraled curls out of her face and slid off the bed.

The sound of her mother's sobbing became louder as Dolores made her way towards the living room. The smell of dry, cheap chardonnay and fresh cigarette smoke swirled around the room. The combination of the two smells formed a repulsive odor that over the years Dolores had come to associate with the onset of her mother's "episodes".

"What's wrong Mama? Why are you crying?," asked Dolores, trying to muster up as much concern and sincerity as her razor thin patience would allow her voice to carry at the moment. "Oh Mija, I didn't mean for you to hear me like this," her mother said, her breath reeking of the cheap chardonnay. Yeeeahfuckinright, Dolores thought. "I'm so sorry," her mother choked out through alcohol soaked sobs, "I'm just wondering why I should even be alive anymore. I have nothing to live for." Dolores could feel herself clenching her jaws and the all too familiar tears threatening to build up and overflow from her tear ducts. She hated when her mother got this bad. She noticed the emptied bottle of wine on the floor by her mother's foot. She must not be on her meds, Dolores concluded. I wonder for how long. "Mama, don't talk like that, okay? Please? I know you're feeling sad right now, but you know you're gonna be okay." Her mother began to cry harder causing her to slump forward slightly on the couch. Dolores stood in front of where her mother was sitting, looking down on her, wishing silently in her mind that either she or her mother would teleport to another place and time. She looked around the room as if looking for a way out. Her eyes stopped at the wall behind the couch. It was decorated with professional portrait photos of Dolores at various ages and a few of Dolores and her mother. She noticed how happy and full of life her mother looked in the photographs, particularly one Dolores vaguely remembered taking. They were at the beach, her mother was sitting in a beach chair gazing down with a smile of content at the three year old version of Dolores curled up on her lap. Little Dolores was completely wrapped in a brightly colored beach towel save for the few unruly curls that escaped confinement, and suckling her thumb as she looked up at the camera. The sun was reflecting off the naturally bronzed skin of both mother and daughter, creating a soft glow around them in the picture. The moment in time had been captured so perfectly it could have easily been mistaken for an advertisement in a magazine. Daddy must have taken this. My life was so good before he took off, she thought. The mother let out a sharp gasp as she sobbed causing Dolores to avert her eyes back to the distraught, fragile, little woman in front of her. She studied the top of her mother's head as she continued to cry. Dolores had the same thick, dark brown almost black, untamed, curly hair as her mother. While staring at the intertwining locks of hair, she was suddenly caught in another memory of being a little girl nestled in her mama's arms and methodically twirling her mama's curls around her tiny little fingers. She would stretch the curl to its full length, let it spring back to its natural state, stretch it out again, and then wrap the strands around her finger to reform the curl. Playing in her mother's curls had always made Dolores smile.

"No. No I'm not," her mother’s voice pitifully interjected into her thoughts, "this time I'm gonna really do it. I'm going to kill myself. I can't stop them from saying it. So they must be right. I have to do it. Then everything will be better for everyone. Do you want me to tell you how I'm going to do it?" Her mother reached for her daughter’s hand and pulled her to sit down beside her on the couch. Dolores sat down and let out a sharp sigh, making no to effort to hide her disgust. "No Mom I don't want to know because you're not going to do anything. You know this and I know this, so I don't see what's the point of even sayin you're gonna do it. If you were gonna do it you wouldn't even say anything. You'd just do it." “That’s what you think Mija. I never wanted to be a burden to you. It shouldn’t be like this. You’re 17. You have so much to live for. Everything about you is beautiful. I can’t control the thoughts anymore. They just keep coming, no matter how hard I try to drown them out. I’m draining your life and I just can’t keep living knowing I’m killing your spirit.” Dolores disdainfully stared at her mother, studying her as if she were trying to figure out who this crying nutcase was disguised as her mother. In all of the near 18 years of life, she had never seen her mother this off base or delusional. “MOM, STOP TALKING LIKE THAT!” Dolores startled herself with how loud she had raised her voice. “I can’t deal with you talking like this all the time. This getting drunk and crying routine is what’s a burden to me, Mom. You don’t take your medications and then have these big over the top and toooootally unnecessary crying fits when the voices and thoughts get to be too much. Why in the hell can’t you just try to avoid all of this and just take your damn meds?!” Her mother stared blankly at her daughter with tear glazed bloodshot red eyes. The weight of the tears that had been welling up since she entered the room had become too heavy for Dolores to contain anymore. Her face was flushed and her ears were hot. She could feel each teardrop as it took it’s turn exiting her lower lid, sliding down the curve of the apple of her cheeks, and eventually off the edge of her face altogether. She wanted her mother to fall off the edge altogether. She wanted to fall off the edge altogether. She wanted one of them to fall off the edge altogether. It was getting to be far too much for her to handle her mother’s psychotic outbursts, in addition to trying to maintain a normal high school senior’s responsibility. She had finals coming up in eight weeks and graduation quickly approaching. She didn’t want to have to worry about anything more than which dress she was going to wear to the ceremony, or what university life would be like. Instead for the past four years she had been dutifully watching over her mother: making sure she took her meds, she went to her doctor appointments, and making sure she didn’t wander off when she’d enter into her delusions. She had become the parent in this relationship. This is so goddamn unfair, she allowed her mind to hiss at her. She looked at her mother in disgust, but felt her face twisting up and stopped. Dolores knew in her heart and her mind that it was not her mother’s fault that she was a schizophrenic. “Who in their right mind would want to deal with this and have to be away from a girl as beautiful as you?”, she recalled her mother asking when she first tried to explain her illness to Dolores seven years prior. “I wish I wasn’t sick Sweetheart. I wish I could be a better mommy to you. I’m going to go away for a little while so I can try to get better.” Dolores remembered how she had cried the day her father took her to visit her mother, who at the time (unbeknownst to Dolores) had been checked into a psychiatric ward after a failed suicide attempt, when she found out her mother wasn’t going to be coming home as she had promised.

The pain she felt then was the same pain she felt now. It was an icy cold pain, that both warms and freezes at the same time causing the senses to resort to feeling numbness to avoid feeling the intensity of the pain. It hurt to be in so much pain she was numb. No wonder she named me Dolores. Either she knew life wasn’t gonna give me nothing but pain or she knew she was just going to be pain in my ass she thought, laughing to herself at the irony in the Spanish meaning of her name, “pain”, her life and her and her mother’s relationship. There had definitely been more pain than anything else, especially after her father had left for good five years earlier. He said in a brief letter he would later send, he couldn’t deal with his wife’s illness anymore and he didn’t want to separate his daughter from her mother. For the first two years, Dolores felt he should have taken her. She had long since stop thinking about it.

Despite her acknowledgment and understanding of her mother’s lack of fault in having this illness and her own unwillingness to abandon her mother like the rest of the family had, at the moment she was tired of dealing with it. Dolores raised her hands to wipe her face. She sniffled a little and then after a moment said in a quiet, almost defeated tone, “Whatever Mom. Do whatever you want. I’m over all this. I can’t do it. I’m tired.” She got up off the couch. “I think you should go to sleep and sober up. The alcohol isn’t helping you.” And with that she turned to walk back to her room. “Dolores, I’m sorry. I really am. I wish I could fix all of this. I wish your mother wasn’t crazy. I love you, Sweetie.” Her mother’s words followed her down the hallway but were met by an already shut door.

It was 6:26 AM. She had been awoken out of her sleep because she was coughing. As she walked toward the kitchen to get a bottle of water, she saw the light from the TV in the living room flickering. Mom must be up. She better have taken her medications. I hope for both our sake she’s feeling better because I’m gonna end up going crazy too. She half smiled at the thought of her and her mother sharing a room in a psych ward. As she approached the living room she said, “Morning Mom did you--” Dolores didn’t finish the sentence. On the couch her mother was sprawled out, her mouth caked in almost dry mix of blood and vomit. She had cut both of her wrists. Dolores began crying hysterically as she began to process what she was looking at. She touched her mother cooling body in disbelief. And frantically cried, “No Mommy please Mommy Mommy Mommy please no you didn’t Mommy NOO MOMMY MOMMMMY!! You didn’t. OH God MOMMY NO, WHY MOMMY GET UP! WAKE UP!” Her mother’s lifeless body was heavy against her. She backed away from the couch, in shock unsure of what to do. Her mommy was gone. She had really done it. Dolores instantly felt regret for thinking the night before of herself and the thoughts of wishing her mother would either go away or get better. The intense wave of regret caused Dolores to fall to her knees, dry heave and vomit. She could think of nothing but I’m the reason she’s dead. I gave up on her. She thinks I gave up on her like everyone else because I told her whatever. I killed my mommy. Dolores sobbed uncontrollably. As if in a daze she moved to the couch and her mother and sat down. “Mommy I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I swear Mommy, I didn’t. I was just being stupid. I’m sorry I was so worried about that dumb ass dress I wanted. I’m sorry Mommy”, she hoarsely whispered through her tears. Dolores saw the chef’s knife her mother had used to slit her wrists laying at her mother’s side. She picked up the knife which was stained with both her mother’s wet and dry blood. “You were right to name me Dolores Mommy. I know nothing but pain. I am pain. I wonder what the world would be like if there was no pain. Sin dolores.” And with that, Dolores pressed the blade against her neck as hard as she could and moved the blade quickly, yet deliberately, across her throat making a gentle gurgling sound as the life drained out of her.

January 3, 2011

Trying Something Different-ish

**Normally don't put up any of my shorts... for what reason? I dunno. But I decided to throw one out there and see how it vibes with y'all.**

Body Talk

I lift my head off the pillow to get a better look at the red glowing numbers on the alarm clock sitting on the table next to my bed. It’s 2:12 in the morning and I can’t sleep. As I lay here, wondering why in the hell the sandman hasn’t come to get me yet, my mind drifts to the seemingly endless list of crap I don’t want to do later when I get to the office. Even though being junior partner at the financial consulting firm I slave for has been beyond good to my bank account, the stress of managing my clients and overseeing the files of my subordinates is more than enough to keep me awake most nights. I pick up my phone checking to see if I have any missed calls, emails or texts. As I scroll through my texts, I pass over his name. I want to call him but I already know that would be a waste of free anytime minutes because he’s not going to answer. Our cat and mouse situation has pushed me to the brink of near madness over the last few months; especially since it seems I’ve fallen into the unfamiliar role of the cat. I had realized some time ago that I was eating my adopted philosophy, “Don’t chase em, just replace em”. I really hate that shit too. Probably because I can’t justify my reasoning behind wanting to give of myself to someone who doesn’t have the time to really give me what I want. Despite the numerous dates, discussions and nights spent together, I still wasn’t getting what I wanted. My frustration with this has grown over the past few months, at times more with myself than with him. I know better than to get caught up or catch feelings like I’ve allowed myself to. But unfortunately, much to the dismay of my emotions and my circadian cycle, I did and I have, and now I’m lying here at 2:27AM with wandering thoughts of him and pondering as to how the hell this is all going to play itself out.

I put my phone back down and I let out a frustrated sigh as I roll over onto my back. I close my eyes in an attempt to lure my racing mind into unconsciousness. But instead the urge to feel him in between my thighs suddenly overwhelms me… so much so that I can feel the blood flowing to my pussy as my body gives in to the deliciously seductive thought of him touching me. My nipples tighten up and get hard enough to slice through glass like a heated knife through butter. I slide my hands up under my pale blue tank top and palm my smooth, ample, soft yet firm 36DD cup tits. I grab them deliberately, the way he would. The warmth of my palms against my frigid nipples sends an electric chill across my chest and down my spine causing the delicate skin to pucker up, dotting my breasts with goose bumps. I rub and squeeze my nipples between my forefingers and thumbs as I imagine him sucking and circling each with his tongue. My breathing deepens a little and I let out a long slow sigh of pleasure as I give into the feeling. The sensation from me playing with my nipples, and the accompanying thought, makes the walls of my pussy contract and relax. I can feel my clit swell as it starts to wake up wanting to me to include it in this impromptu playtime as well. I gladly oblige in my body’s requests and pull the black short shorts I’m wearing to the side. I glide my fingers along the outer surface of my freshly waxed place. I slide my middle finger up my slit the way he does right before he fingers me. The slickness from my wetness allows my fingers to glide effortlessly around the hood of my clit. I use the same teasing motion he does when he’s trying to get me in the mood. My clit is fully engorged now and I use the slightly sticky wetness that’s steadily dripping from my sex hole to caress and encircle it. I think about the way he licks and sucks on my pussy when he’s got his face down in my place. He always moves his tongue as if he’s having a private conversation with her in a language I’m not meant to understand but rather through her translation I’m able to feel. The perfectly powerful and gentle motion of his tongue and lips around my clit never fails to have me gripping and clawing his sheets, as if in doing so I’ll somehow be able to escape from the overwhelmingly intense yet pleasurably tolerable dialogue he’s having with my pussy.

C’mere rude boy boy can you get it up… I must have completely fallen asleep and be dreaming because I know that can’t possibly be him making my phone ring. Not at 2:57 in the morning. I slide my hands out of my shorts and pick my phone. “Babe you up? What are you doing?,” the unexpected text reads. Jilling off while I think about you, is what I think, but I reply, “Nothing really. Just laying here. Tired as shit but I can’t sleep. What are you doing?” “Thinking about you. You too tired to come over?” “No I’m good, I’ll be there in a few.” “K.”

I pull up and park in front of his house fifteen minutes later. I can still feel the wetness from earlier as I walk up the driveway towards his front door. I turn the knob already knowing he’s left the door unlocked. I close and lock the door behind me and make my way down the hallway to his room. He’s lying in bed already, shirtless. The only light in the room is coming from the TV mounted on the wall. “Hey,” I smile. “Hay is for horses,” he counters. I exaggeratedly roll my eyes but laugh softly at the more than familiar greeting. I slip out of the light gray sweatpants and black jacket I threw on over my sleepwear as I was leaving my house. I pull back the covers on my side of his bed and climb in. I snuggle up right next to him and lay my head on his shoulder. Instinctively he wraps his arm around me, his hand resting in the deep sway of my lower back. I love laying against him like this; the rhythmic sounds of both his heart beating and relaxed breathing are soothing, comforting really. As irritated as I can get with him and the purgatory-like, in limbo, indecisiveness of our “relationship”, the quiet moments like this make me forget about all of that, temporarily at least.

I look up and kiss him on cheek and then again closer to his lips. He turns his head so that my lips meet his. This kiss is an open invitation for him to keep going. He parts my lips with his and I suck gently on his bottom lip. He moves me onto my back and slides his hand underneath my shirt and deliberately cups my 36DD tit in his large hand. The warmth of his palm against my frigid nipple sends that electric chill across my chest and down my spine causing the delicate skin to pucker up, dotting my breasts with goose bumps. He rubs and squeezes my nipple between his forefinger and thumb as he begin sucking and circling the other with his tongue. My breathing deepens a little and I let out a long slow moan of pleasure as I give into the tantalizing feeling of his body touching mine. I reach my hand out searching his dick and I when I find it can feel it throbbing and solidifying as the blood rushes into it. I stroke him with strong, sure movements, applying a little more pressure as I reach the head. He lets out an almost inaudible low groan that tells me I’m doing it just the way he likes. Not to be outdone, he slides his hand from my tit into my shorts to the top of my love slit. “Mmm someone is excited,” he says coyly. I smile. He purposely brushes against my pulsating clit as he slowly slides a finger into my wet, invitingly warm pussy hole. I moan with delight as he works his finger in a “come here” motion against the roof, stroking my G-spot. He slides in a second finger making my walls tighten involuntarily. I can feel the wetness increase as my body gets excited. But I refuse to let him make me cum yet.

I gently push his hand away from my place and sit up. He knows what I’m doing because it’s what he has wants me to do. He lies back. I climb over him and position myself between his legs. His dick is rock hard and standing fully erect through his boxers. Just looking at it in anticipation of taking all of him into my mouth is enough to make my mouth water. I pull down his shorts and lower my head onto his head guiding him to the back of my throat, moving my tongue as I work the length of his shaft. “Shhhiiit babe,” he moans. I methodically suck and lick him. I swirl my tongue around his thickness, periodically focusing on the head flicking it and then sucking it forcefully while bobbing my head up and down like I’m listening to a song with a heavy bass line. He’s not even attempting to stifle his moans and groans anymore. His hand is on the back of my head, not pushing but rather just resting, enjoying the movement as I go up and down and up and down. “Damn baby, you’re gonna make me nut.” The throbbing in my mouth confirms this and I slow down all the way. I’m not ready for him to cum yet. I lift up my head and wipe away the extra saliva and his pre-cum from my lips. In an animalistic manner he flips me onto my back, pulls off my shorts and pushes my legs open to expose my sideways smile. He gently spreads my lips and licks and flicks my throbbing clit. The one simple act makes me fall into a state of ecstasy and I feel like I’m outside of my body. He begins to move his tongue along the outside of my pussy hole and back around my clit, beginning his private conversation with her. The mixture of his saliva and her wetness is dripping down the round of my ass cheeks, surely creating a wet spot he’s going to try to make me sleep in. I push his face further into my place and grind against his mouth as he rolls his tongue against her. “Fu-uck,” I exhale softly through clenched teeth. I feel myself about to climax and grab at the sheets bracing myself for the eruption that’s about to take place. “Fuck fuck fuuuck I’m bout to cum,” I half breathe half scream. “Give it to me.” That’s all he needs to say. I give it to him, every last drop of it. The intense wave of satisfying ecstasy the orgasm inflicts upon me makes me shake uncontrollably. I’m gasping for air trying to regain my composure since I know we’re not done.

He brings his face up to mine and kisses my deeply. He pushes his tongue into my mouth and I taste the remnants of my pussy juices. As we kiss, I stroke his dick and gently pull him towards my dripping, plush, warm opening. He puts the head in, slowly so as to let her stretch to accommodate all of him. Keeping his mouth on mine, he swallows my moans. He pushes the rest of him inside of her and she welcomes him with a tight squeeze that causes his eyes to close and his face to contort in a manner that turns me on even more. My legs are spread into a wide V allowing him to penetrate and grind against me deeper than I ever thought possible. It’s almost as if he’s trying to mesh and meld himself into me until separation is no longer an option. As if to grant his unspoken desire to be one, I reach my arms up around to his shoulders and pull him further into me. I want him to tenderly fuck the hell out of me. And he does. He starts with slow long strokes moving in… and out… and in… and out. The slick friction of our bodies sliding against each other, both internally and externally, feels so damn good I feel like I might die from the sheer raw pleasure of it all. It’s like he’s sexing me with more than just his physical parts. We’re moving in sync with not just our bodies but our minds and souls. All three aspects are having an unspoken conversation that only he and I understand. He quickens his stroke, thrusting into me inandoutandinandoutandinandout. I dig my nails into his back because I’m incapable of moving to reach for the sheets. I lift my hips and flex the muscles of my walls rhythmically around him, keeping time with his movements. He gazes down at me with the look that lets me know he’s about to cum, which I expect because of the way I’ve been flexing. That always gets him. I feel that familiar pre-climatic sensation and my toes involuntarily curl as my body gets ready to submit to the passionate build up. I let out an incredibly loud screaming moan as my body releases the entire last little bit of energy I’ve been holding onto. In the state of unconscious awareness that takes over as I orgasm, I hear myself yell out several sacrilegious phrases mixed up with the words “fuck me”, “shit”, “harder” and “ooh damn”. My feet flex upwards and I grab onto him pulling him in deeper and harder as I buck and grind my hips uncontrollably. “Fuck I’m cumming,” he breathes heavily. He thrusts into me like he’s trying to go through me. And with the last stroke releases his hot, creamy, thick, sticky load inside of me. The involuntary shaking in my legs tell him I’m thoroughly satisfied. He’s slightly shaking as he comes back into his body and it tells me he’s just as satisfied as me.

As I come back down from the high of exploding from the inside out against his hardness, I lay there reveling in the delicious aftermath of what we’ve just done my skin still moist from the sweat we worked up. I turn my head towards the red glowing numbers on the alarm clock sitting on the table next to his bed. 4:28AM. I turn my attention back to him. He’s lying on his back, softly snoring but I know he’s not knocked out yet. I move myself closer to him, and situate my body against his so that I’m lying with my back to him, on my side with my head resting on his inner arm and my butt cheeks are pressed against him. As if on cue he awakens enough to turn over and spoon me, his free arm now wrapped around my waist tightly pulling me closer to him, his fingers interlocked with mine. He lifts his head, kisses me gently on my neck, and then drops back into sleep. I smile with contentment and right before I close my eyes to give in to the undeniable sleepiness that has finally come for me, I think to myself This may not be what I want, but this is what I need. He is what I need. This works. We work… at least for now anyways.

I close my eyes, sink back fully against his warmth and float into sleep.

November 11, 2010


"You broke my heart and I let you succeed, cuz to a player that's an organ that you really don't need." - Sugafree

I wasn't heartless til the fucker broke the one I had all up into parts.
I mean really what was I gonna do with a broken heart?
Shit that's broken is useless to me... unless we're talkin bout broken down weed
Sometimes things just can't be fixed, especially if they've been shattered
So I just said fuck it and let him keep what was left
Cuz the way I figure, it don't even really matter

November 8, 2010


I want a guy who's playlist is similar to mine but with a few extras to enhance what I've got.
I want a guy who when he hears the salsa o merengue come into rotation, he doesn't immediately change it.
But instead he listens to it and appreciates the sound of the congas, horns and g├╝ira and the precision of the timing, realizing that to analyze and understand the music is to analyze and understand me.
I want him to be able to plug into my player and feel like he's hearing his.
I want to appreciate the diversity between his list and mine.
I want his music to expose me.
I want it to pull me apart and then put me back together using the melodies, harmonies and tempo as the glue to reinforce.
I want his music to flow through my body as naturally as bossa nova causes me to move and sway my hips.
I want his music in me.

April 6, 2010

Off the Hook

You ever been fishing? I've only been once or twice in my life, but this is what I remember of it:
  1. Take the fishing rod and bait the hook.
  2. Step back a little and then cast the line out.
  3. Wait
  4. Wait
  5. Cuss
  6. Wait
  7. Pray
  8. Wait
  9. Pray
  10. Wait.Cuss.Pray
This is probably just my take on it. Again only been once or twice. However when I've seen other people do it, whether it be on TV or in person, other folks always seem to catch a fish. But me? Never. Not once. I admit this is probably largely due to the fact that I am impatient as fuck. I HATE WAITING. Always have, so fishing is probably not something that I should fuck with anyways right?

Well it seems like this whole concept of "fishing" constantly follows me. Even when I'm not trying. I notice this main in my "love" life. (Love is in "" cuz well really there isn't a whole lotta love in my life. I'm not sad or anything like that over it. Actually I'm content with the way things are. My life is plenty complicated and busy without any extra "love". ) I use to be hopeful when I'd cast out my line, feeling the slight tugging on my heart strings thinking I'd caught the big one... only to real in my line and find out I'd caught a damn guppy =/ Toss it back. On and On this went until I said Maaaaaaaaaaaaan FUCK THIS, cuz you know like I said, I'm impatient. That catch and release bullshit ain't for me.

Lately, last two years or so, I've been the fish on the hook. Luckily I've more or less been able to realize when the bait used on the line ain't worth snappin at. Unfortunately, cuz there's been more bullshit bait on the lines I'm sure I've swam past some bait worthy of consumption. Even the few times I've found myself nibbling on the bait, I've backed up. Hell I've been slightly hooked, but pulled away before I was truly captured, getting off the hook left scars but fuck it... even at the thought of this I just gotta *shrug*. Cuz honestly I feel like Nemo when he was trapped in the aquarium... knowing there's an entire ocean out there, I can't bring myself to be content with biting at just any baited hook... no matter how tempting. I won't allow myself to get hooked. I'm not ready to be pulled out of waters I haven't explored.

I just hope I don't get eaten by a shark avoiding the hook.

December 8, 2009

Light Skin, Bright Skin: Part 2... Sorta

"Immigrant parents had me feeling like a stepkid/Black Americans never did accept me" - Wale

"Shades" is currently one my favorite songs. I remember the first time I heard it after vibin and nodded my head to the dopeness of the beat, lyrics and Chrisette's beautiful vocals... I half wanted to karate chop Wale in the throat for reading my "Light Skin, Bright Skin" and flippin the concept without giving me my props. It's so rare that I can feel a song as deeply as I do this one. Not just on the skin color tip either.

For those that are just tuning in & haven't read any other of my previous postings, 1.) Shame on you. Go read them. and 2.) I'm obviously mixed. My mother is Mexican. Cali born and raised, and non Spanish speaking. My father is Haitian and Dominican, born and raised in Port au Prince, Haiti, English, Spanish & French speaking. My parents divorced before I was even aware they were together. I was raised primarily by my dad and stepmom. My dad remarried my stepmama when I was about 4. Stepmom is straight Nicoya, meaning she's from Nicaragua. I don't remember her speaking anything but Spanish for the first year or two she was married to my dad. So picture it... Early 90s... here you have this super light, slightly napped headed (cuz Lawd knows my stepmom didn't know what the fuck to do with my mixed textured hair... hell at 23 I barely know what to do with it), Spanglish speaking, biracial little girl.

I was privileged enough to go to private schools for a majority of my childhood. This particular one I'm gonna speak on was nestled in near the Oakland hills, nice area. Their curriculum was challenging and far ahead of anything my cousins who went to public schools were doing. And more than that, it extended beyond the books. There was a heavy focus on nonviolence and tolerance of other cultures and races. They kept us up on current affairs, they didn't sugarcoat much. Black History Month, Hispanic Heritage Month and St. Patrick's Day were celebrated equally. In 1994 (age 8), I not only knew what apartheid was, I could spell it, tell you why it was an issue and Nelson Mandela's role in demolishing it. I knew who Cesar Chavez was and what the farmer works movement was. I did book reports on Sammy Davis, Jr. I sat next to and hugged Jane Goodall. I got the chance to TALK to Mother Teresa and have her pray for me. I mean I only said "Hi, How are you?" but still. I've kissed both Jerry Rice and Jason Kidd on the cheek. By the age of 9 I'd experienced things most folks NEVER will. And more importantly "WHAT" I was didn't matter as much as WHO I was. I wasn't put into a box.

That all changed my first year in public school. I was bout 10 or 11 and given a rude awakening. My school was still in Oakland, predominately Black American sprinkled with a few S. Pacific islanders, Mexicans, White kids, and "standard" (Black & White) mixed kids. I didn't get beat up or nothing like that, not physically. I just really remember feeling so fucking out of place cuz for the first time ever I really realized I was different. I wasn't mixed like the other mixed girls. My hair wasn't "mixed" looking the way theirs was. I was brighter than most of them. When they talked bout what they ate for dinner there was no mention of goat or lengua, maduro/bannann, djon djon or arroz y frijoles. Breakfast for them was Apple Jacks or a Twinkie.
**Side note: I STILL don't know what the fuck Apple Jacks taste like and I didn't know what the hell a Twinkie tasted like til I was 19 when my ex had me try one cuz he couldn't get over the fact that I didn't have them growing up** I ate stuff like Mangu, AK100 or eggs and rice and drank papaya or guava juice for breakfast. And in my naive lil mind and logic, if they were all on the same page, I had to be the weird one cuz I wasn't. I had immigrant parents who immersed me so far into my cultures and had come from a school that was so culturally accepting and open, that being on the opposite end was quite the mind fuck to say the least.

I fought with my stepmom, who by now had learned how to manage my hair, to get her to stop braiding it. I figured out how to straighten it on my own so I could look more like the Black Americans and "Standard" mixed girls I hung with. I threw away the maduro, queso cotija, arroz y pollo that was made for my lunch, saved my allowance so I could buy school food and eat what they were eating. I stopped speaking Spanish at home, answered only in English and only spoke Spanish when I had to. I just wanted to be "normal". I wanted to be accepted. Now as an adult I would call this an identity crisis. My issues with my race, or rather the lack of being able to have my own box to mark, were damaging for quite some time. I really struggled with what I was more than who I was. Some Black girls and some Latina girls fucked with me and were cool, but most didn't and weren't. To the Latinas I was the Black girl trying to be one of them cuz I could speak Spanish. To the Black girls I was the halfbreed trying to be like one of them. Don't get me wrong... I wasn't a loner. Far from it. But on the inside this is the bullshit that I struggled with. Throw my transition into puberty into the mix and you can understand why I was (am lol) so off center.

So when I talk bout the whole Light skin Dark skin and In Between skin... it's not just bout color for me. It's everything and anything that goes into what made that skin. I won't say it's a touchy subject for me, cuz I'll gladly discuss it with you any day, any time... but I can't even lie thinking about some of the stuff I use to do to "fit in" and be "normal", and even just writing it now, brings tears to my eyes. I was raised within my home & family life to be proud of who I am, where my family comes from, to embrace my cultures. As an adult it sickens me to think that I ever tried to hide the beauty of the cultures that is ME. I'm appalled that something as simple as a switch in schools, in the same city mind you, made me want to not be who I am... beyond the way I dressed or any of that, but to change the physical makeup of who I am... all because I didn't have single box to check or know how to explain my cultural background so other people wouldn't have that o_O look and ask "Sooo um WHAT are you though?" As an adult I can also just chock it up to just being naive... but Fuck.Shit.Damn that's some scary shit.

I mean whatever you call it Light Skin, Bright Skin, Yellow Skin, Mexican Skin, Island Skin, Halfbreed Skin, and Anything else in between Skin... it's MY skin. And it fits me quite well.

"Shade doesn't matter, Heart makes the lover."

November 9, 2009


Late Fall and the beginning of Winter have a strangely consistent way of bringing out a plethora of my emotions. Possibly because this time of year is a constant reminder that my life is progressing forward faster than I ever could have imagined since my birthday is approaching. Or possibly being single & laying in a cold bed night after night does it. Wait lemme stop... I'm sounding depressed & emo... that's not what I'm getting at.

Okay... it's more like I'm realizing that half the shit I thought I knew is crap. And that kinda leaves a fourth of the shit I do know half assed & incomplete cuz it was either backed or linked to that half of the stuff that is now crap. So I'm left with only a fourth of what I've accumulated over the last almost 23 years to be solid & credible. That ain't shit when it's broken down like that. I mean it could be worse but I'm greedy & occasionally arrogant.

Admitting to myself that I don't know shit, or far less than I thought I did, is more difficult than having to admit it to someone else. Fuck everyone else. Cuz like I said before I'm in this bed ALONE night after night. In a nutshell I've realized I can't run from myself. As many times as I've tried over the years, fooling myself into believing that I'm not, it's hit me that I'm not fooling anyone but my damn self. Sounds kinda obvious & "Duh bitch of course you can't run from you". Well maybe it's my Sag hard headed stubborn nature to overlook shit until I'm ready to see it or til I can't overlook it anymore. But I see it. I realize it. And more importantly, I think anyways, I OWN it.

I'm a control freak. Quite frankly I'm proud of myself, being a said control freak, that I can admit I don't know what, where, or which direction I'm trying to head in. For the first time in a long time I don't know how to get what I want cuz I don't really know what that ultimate WANT is. I'm great with directions & maps, all that. But only when I know where my destination is. And at this moment I don't know where or what that is.

Only thing I know for certain is that I want More. More of what? Guess that will be my next realization.