Tuesday, September 29, 2009

perfect hands

Out of ten, $15-manicured fingernails:

only TWO remain unchipped.

My nails have been painted all of four days.


I have now decided that I do too much with my hands to have perfectly manicured nails for more than a day or so.

I even broke a glass while trying to wash dishes with latex gloves on, just to protect my nails.

I believe this calls for a



dark paint on my nails staying shiny sans chipping.
midnight road trip with crescent moon and cool breeze in tow.
not worrying about being shot, raped, or kidnapped.
God, god, or gods, male or female, Mother Earth or the universe.
liking boys or liking girls, whether i am a boy or a girl.
i do or i don't.
black, yellow, white, spanish speaking, single mother, divorced, married
of average intelligence or gifted
poor, rich, or in-between

my point is that
i just want to be free
and i want to take everyone with me.

if you don't care, you're hurting more than just yourself

That could have been me.

Despite the fact that it would have had to have been six years ago, I don't live in Chicago, and I'm not a male. Oh yeah, and I never walked home from school.

But despite all those factors, it could have easily been me.

Black honor student with plenty of promise--gone. Way before his time.

Beat to death by some fucking hooligans with a plank, no shame, no control, no care for anything.

Derrion Albert was 16 years old... and by all accounts, a sweet young man. An honor student. And he was killed because he was trying to walk home from school. The most typical daytime activity in the universe.

I don't think you understand how serious it is that a group of CHILDREN... a group of young kids, barely old enough to make their own decisions, beat this fellow young man to death. Like Michael Baisden said on the radio this afternoon, there are people who are not loving these children enough... who are not paying these children enough attention. The fact that these kids are running wild, joining gangs, taking peoples' LIVES?! It's too much.

It's because no one cares anymore. Even the fucking Mayor of Chicago couldn't delay what he was doing to focus on this problem... he decided that trying to get the Olympics was more important... but he did issue a statement. The family that lost this bright young person don't give a fuck about a damn statement from a man who probably doesn't even give a fuck in the first place.

It's so disturbing to me, I'm indignant writing this. I didn't know this young man, I don't have family in Chicago, and I'm miles removed from the situation, but I care. Someone has to care. Someone. I know I'm not alone, but I do care. I may have started working with children by a mere "coincidence," but I know I was put in my position to keep moving further and further up the ranks... not so I can show off my position or how high I've escalated, but because someone needs to care. Someone needs to be in place who cares.

The media thinks they are doing their part by showing the clip of Derrion being beat to death--that doesn't do shit, but make my stomach turn. The clip was helpful to authorities, but I don't want to see it repeated on every news show... so the announcers can ruminate on "how much a tragedy" this is, and then go on to talking about fucking Jon & Kate Plus 8. (or, excuse me, Kate Plus 8.)

These kids--especially the hooligans who obviously know they have control of the streets, because, excuse me, where were the adults? Any adults? Anyone?--need to know that they are valuable. They need to know that they are beautiful. They need to know that they are intelligent, and that they have promise, and that someone in this world is here for them. They need to know their worth. They need to know that no one defines them, that no one else's words can create their self-esteem. They need their fucking parents, who are probably still concerned with the same childish things they were when they created the kids (you know, things like the new Plies album or the biggest rims on the biggest car with the most televisions in it) to step up. They need their parents to read with them. They need their parents to care about where they are and what they are doing. They need their parents to be fucking parents, instead of just organ donors. They need to know that even if their parents had an "accident" in making them, that they are here on Earth by no accident. And someone needs to tell them these things, because I know, I know that these gangs, and these grown men, and these streets are lying to them.

These streets are telling them that making fast money makes them valuable. That being able to sling dope makes them smart. These grown fucking men are telling these girls that letting him beat with no condom makes them women. That getting pregnant by him is the glory. These gangs are telling these boys that they will be surrogate fathers for them. These gangs are telling them that they will forever have a home... as long as they shoot to kill.

We are losing the kids. And I say we because even though I'm not that much older than the kids, I am taking responsibility. From here until I draw my last breath, I will always be out to help any child that I can. I just want them to know that they are gifted beyond measure. Beautiful beyond compare. Bright beyond luster. That their worth is invaluable.

I just want them to know that they are loved.

And if that can save at least one child, then it's worth everything.

R.I.P. Derrion Albert, and many others we've lost for no reason other than apathy.

Monday, September 28, 2009

I... don't?

it's not that i hate marriage. or relationships.

i don't, really.

it's just that i don't know. i've been observing and thinking a lot lately, and i just don't know.

much like wanting to be a doctor, the fanfare of it all confused me. the thought that marriage=security, a loving, respectful husband, and a big-ass, sparkly diamond has faded.

what remains is that marriage = work.

and if you wonder why i'm focusing so heavy on marriage, no, it's not because i'm engaged, or because i'm about to be engaged, it's because, like a good friend of mine says, "in a relationship" is temporary. so instead of focusing on the ephemeral, i'm focusing on what's supposed to be in all of our futures; what is supposed to be relatively permanent.

i don't know. i pray that it's like Ossie Davis & Ruby Dee, Cliff & Claire Huxtable, but what if it's not? what if it's more like Joan Crawford & Spencer Tracy, or Frank Sinatra & Ava Gardner?

what happens when and if you go from late, candlelit nights of touching and dreaming, to being spouses who come home and don't speak to each other?

what happens when love isn't enough? when people claim that they love their spouse but they fuck other people just because (they can)? or when people used to be in love but they "fall out of love" and now they're divorced and their kids are wondering what the fuck just happened?

i'm starting to wonder... is that paper and that idea of union (because sometimes, it's truly an idea and not a reality) really worth it? or, is it just a leftover idea from times gone past, you know, like people who still believe interracial dating is wrong?

until I figure it out [if i do], this is where I am

Life Revelation.

I’m not getting legally married. I’m going to have a I’ve-found-the-man-with-whom-I-will-mutually-stress-the-fuck-out-till-death-do-us-part Reception. Will you come?


I wish I could say it's mine, but it's not. Someone took my same type of thoughts and wrote them perfectly. Check out her blog, The Brisk Convergence. I promise, you won't be disappointed.

Friday, September 25, 2009

no title

I'm gonna say it...

well, actually, she's gonna say it,
because when i start talking about emotions
people like to pretend they don't feel,
i like to pretend that i'm someone else,
that she who is quite frankly,

j e a l o u s
of the love
i swear everysinglesolitaryotherpersonalive
will have
except for me
i mean, her.

maybe i'm just being punished
because i'm
too impatient too ready too easy to fall
too ready to be joined with another soul
too desirous of the love that is not shamed,
the love you can put on your facebook page,
the love you can tell everyone about
because it ain't goin' nowhere.

i guess i, i mean she,
i guess she just wants it too bad for her own good.
but i can't blame her
for wanting to love a man
who isn't afraid
in loving her back
and maybe posing for a picture every now and then...
and watching the sunrise every other day...
and holding hands in public...

love behind closed doors isn't enough
sex isn't enough
a text as sporadic as an afterthought
just simply isn't enough--
is it too much
(really, is it too much?)
to want?

maybe if she tells the universe
that she's longing
maybe the universe will send its reward:
a man not shamed by articulate words in long letters,
the man not shamed of being the subject, topic, and focus
of erratic poetry,
a man,
the man,
a man
for her me.

Thursday, September 24, 2009


I tell myself,

I don't want to be in a relationship. Relationships and I don't get along. I get too complacent in a relationship. I lose focus on everything else in life when in a relationship. I stop hanging out with my friends and family when in a relationship.

When the truth is,

I do want to be in a relationship. I do want to know there's going to be someone there when I get off work. I do want to be able to call someone up without worrying about whether they're going to think I'm bothering them. I do want to spend quality time with someone.

But the problem is,

why do I want to be in a relationship?

Because relationship to me has always signaled some type of security. As a little girl, I viewed marriage and boyfriend/girlfriend types as secure.

I want the relationship because it represents [the illusion of] security in an unstable existence. But I'm having trouble with this because I have grown up to realize that "relationship" doesn't mean shit except what it says on the dictionary page.
1. a connection, association, or involvement.
2. connection between persons by blood or marriage.
3. an emotional or other connection between people: the relationship between teachers and students.
4. a sexual involvement; affair.
[Do you see the word "secure" anywhere in there?]

So I'm dissatisfied, because I want something that doesn't even exist, and for the wrong reasons at that.

Because I've always believed that all-encompassing, I'm so in love with you, we-have-our-relationship-status-on-Facebook relationship means we'll always be together and our times will always be sunny.

Jazmine Sullivan did say, just 'cuz I love you, and you love me, that doesn't mean, that we're meant to be... I've grown up and I've learned that being in a relationship with someone doesn't mean you're going to get married and have kids and die happy and old [together]. Getting married doesn't mean you'll stay married. Loving someone doesn't mean they will love you back. Having your relationship status on Facebook doesn't make it any more authentic (though the fact that it seems that way to me tells me I still have a ways to go in changing my thinking).

It's my experience and my beliefs fighting against long-imparted ideals.

I wish I could say I know that I'm doing the right thing. But quite frankly, I don't really know. So until I know, I'll settle with the dissatisfaction caused from the friction of ideas rubbing against ideas.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

how can people know you, if you don't know you? part III/trois

Once upon a time, I wrote a blog entry.

It was called how can other people know you, if you don't know you?

In this entry, I focused on how often people misinform other people about their personality... they tell people about the individual they think they are, because they have yet to realize that there's another individual existing... that being, their real selves. Too often, when the condensed, Campbell's soup version of us does not match the reality of us, people get frustrated, and things occur due to that frustration. (Such as broken friendships, ended romantic engagements, etc.)

This past year, I've been learning myself... the reality of me that everyone else gets to see, not the version of me that I've been telling everyone about. You, of course, are along for the ride.

More things I thought about myself that are truly erroneous:
1. I'm a model driver: Don't get me wrong--I am a great driver. Not conventionally, of course. (Not many things in my life are conventional.) I am a careful driver--I always look before backing out, at least two or three times... I scan the driving landscape constantly. I pull over when ambulances and fire trucks need to get by... and I don't run from the police. Promise.

But, I am an arrogant, lead-foot of a driver. I tailgate, I stare at people in their mirrors and mouth filthy things to them when they are not driving up to my standard, and I speed around people when they are not going fast enough for me. I do not drive the speed limit. Well, I do sometimes... but that's usually when I've scanned the landscape and found that there's a police officer or state trooper in the midst. Although I'm a speeder and tailgater, I grow clearly aggravated when other people return this behavior to me. This usually results in me using more filthy language. It doesn't really matter who you are--friend, family, coworker, or boss: if you're not driving to Malorie's standard, you'll know... when I bypass you and kick up dust in your path.

2. I'm really going to scrapbook all my mementos: This is a lie. Repeat: this is a lie.

All the papers and newspaper clippings I've saved from high school to college are now reposing in my closet. I have about two or three scrapbooks, and I have not completed one of them. Every time I sit down and try to do so, the desire leaves me. There's something about sitting still, looking at all the memories that just... I don't know how to describe it. The memories are marvelous and plentiful, but I just don't enjoy sitting there looking at all of them and trying to fit them into neat little categories. I am not a fan of this.

3. I HATED college: It makes me relatively upset to think about, because for the longest time, this has been my story to everyone. It was the reason I came home so much you'd think I went to UCF, it was the reason I graduated in three years, blah blah f-ing blah. It was the reason, but not the truth.

The truth of the matter, to my late discovery, is that I was living inside of an unfortunate condition known as dissatisfaction. I was dissatisfied with everything around me: with my friends, with my relationship status (or lack thereof), with my place of living, with college itself. And the reason I suffered such dissatisfaction, was because I was so internally dissatisfied. My extreme lack of confidence and love for myself transferred over to just about every area of my life.

At times, my surroundings tried to break the hold of dissatisfaction, and at times, my surroundings succeeded. I still remember that day I watched the April sun set over Payne's Prairie like it was a blazing July evening. I remember the way the trees used to shimmy in the wind while I walked to class, and I still remember the way the old brick buildings tried to charm a bit of love out of my heart. Despite all the good times I had, and despite the fact that something bigger inside of me realized the happiness that was trying to fight its way out of my heart (picture The Grinch Who Stole Christmas and his heart trying to grow within its confines), I refused to fully acknowledge this happiness. Even when it was pretty obvious.

So, I left school in such a hurry that for everything I did do, there were at least two things I didn't do. Probably because I was so busy focusing on my boredom with Gainesville and college that I couldn't have found room in my head to think of these things. Jumping through the fountain near Ustler/Murphree Hall. Taking pictures at Emerson in front of Albert and Alberta. Didn't go to the Umoja ceremony for graduates, and didn't get a Kente cloth stole for my robe. Didn't go to any graduation barbeques. Didn't go downtown and drink to celebrate. Didn't drink at all. (I was way too above this behavior, or so I led myself to believe.) I packed up as quickly as I could and left faster than the wind. And now, something you'll rarely hear me admit: I kinda wished I would have seen through my dissatisfaction and enjoyed every second I spent there. Because those are seconds I can now, only relive in memories of what could have been, had I given it a chance.

4. I am shy: No, I'm not. And don't let me tell you I am.

For some reason, I can only remember myself as a child through one lens: one of a quiet, shy child. Why I have chosen to remember myself this way, I'm not sure. But it's a pretty one-dimensional view. In school, I was quiet and respectful, of course. But I always had plenty of friends, was always involved in discussions, and always laughing, a trait that has followed me to the present day.

I am not shy, I just don't need to always have the attention on me. But when I want it on me, oh, I want it. If you've gone out with me or drank with me, you can bear witness to this phenomenon. At almost 5'11" it's pretty useless for me to be shy or to try and hide... because I'm always going to be seen. And I carry myself in a way that asks to be seen. I wear heels. I walk with my head high, confidence on blast. Working with kids has brought out an ability to be less embarrassed about being embarrassed. I've been speaking in front of crowds since I was a kid (school plays, essay contests, projects), and I've made a career out of working with people... which involves speaking to them. I know I'm not shy. I do have shame, but I'm not shy. So the next time you hear me say this, tell me to be quiet.

Until I realize some more things... I'll be thinking...

Friday, September 11, 2009

Tuesday, September 11, 2001

I was fourteen.

I was at Cypress Creek.

I was in Freshman orientation.

We had a substitute that day.

It was a bright day in New York that morning.

No clouds in the sky.

Until the buildings crashed to the ground.


I will never forget that day. I remember someone saying that we needed to turn on the tv because a plane had just crashed into the Twin Towers. I remember feeling like someone was playing a joke because that was not possible. Then we turned on the tv and saw that it was no joke.

We got no work done that day, and all I remember is sitting around, feeling anxious and scared as person after person after person got called out of school over the intercom.

It's been eight years since that day. Eight years that have quite frankly flown by for me, but I'm sure those years haven't flown by for the people who suffered loss that day. Every day they have to live with the present absence of those people who are no longer available for breakfast, lunch, or dinner.

It was, for me, one of the first opportunities to realize just how fragile and quick life can be.

May we never forget these tragedies, but may we also learn in our commemoration, how to assure that such atrocities will never be committed again.


Thursday, September 10, 2009


i run my fingers across her moist lips
and she shudders.
i know she's been feeling neglected lately,
but there's little solace i can offer her.
the way she tries
to swallow my fingers
seems to suggest that i better find you,
and quick

[she has very particular taste
and as it would be
she wants a mouthful of you.]

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

nine, nine, with a dash of nine

Since today is 09.09.09, I figured I would write something.



Tuesday, September 8, 2009

"just don't look down..."

Entry number 100, and it has to be rushed, because I still have to take a shower and wash my hair before heading into work shift number 2 for the day.

Regardless, thought is: I'm afraid.

Of what, you might ask? Well shit, of just about everything. Roaches, spiders, the dark, heartbreak, falling... you name it, I'm probably scared of it.

Okay, so maybe it's not that serious, but I've been paying more and more attention to this issue lately, until it hit me today, when I went exercising. (The epiphany hit me, not the issue.)

I was walking in the park, iPod in, jamming and feeling fly, when I decided to take a step off the path and walk on the grass. Every time I exercise, I always walk on the sidewalk, going the same way. Why had I never walked in the grass before?

(because I was scared of stepping in dog excrement and messing up my shoes.)

While walking across the street (not on the sidewalk) and then walking through the ditch (not on the sidewalk), I realized I was looking down and tried my damnedest to avoid doing this. I ALWAYS look down. When I'm walking, when I'm running, when I'm on the elliptical in the gym, when I'm walking into the ocean... I always look down. It's not an oh I'm so coy and shy thing, but I always need to have some level of control. I can't just walk out into the ocean because I don't want to risk running into a sea creature or stepping on a rock (even though I stay so close to shore that sea animals probably can't even survive where I am). I have to be able to see where I'm going. When people ask me to guess at something, I tell them "I don't guess," because I dislike not knowing what I'm talking about.

Afraid of the dark--can't handle not being able to see where I'm going, or what's in the room with me.

When I'm walking, I look downward--always have to be able to trace my steps; have to know where I'm going; can't risk stepping in dog poop; refuse to trip and fall.

It all goes back to being scared. Of needing to have some control over things. There's nothing wrong with wanting to exhibit some control over life--it has taken me from wallowing and being all "woe is me, I guess fate will control everything" to being the master of my own destiny. That's a good thing. But there's definitely a problem with control and fear being intertwined.

I want to be able to run into the ocean without needing to look downward or fearing I'm going to run into the mouth of a great white. I want to skydive without having to ask someone if anyone has died or thrown up during the process. I want to fall in love and be able to exist in love without being afraid of the consequences.

I want to get on a boat without being scared of drowning or, again, throwing up.

I want to climb a mountain without being scared of falling off.

I want to live the most exciting life...
...without needing to look down.

Monday, September 7, 2009

"...and the point of it all, is I love you..."

I could be sleeping right now.
I could be washing my hair right now.
I could be watching the waves roll in to shore, drink in hand,
with no thought in the world but self-satisfaction,
but here I sit,
with thoughts of you
that are ultimately your fault.
I could be sleeping right now, next to a man.
Who isn't you.
I could be practicing my stroke
(because, I do have one)
or granting the "world famous."
I could be holding hands in the dim light of evening,
standing on my tip-toes in gleeful infatuation,
but instead I sit
at the hands
who've ignored writing
except for the other day,
when they had to write about you.
I could be studying.
I couldshould be with you.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

"life sucks"

sometimes, life electrifies you--
you feel it pulsating in the tips of your fingers
when someone surprises you
and you feel something rise in you,
the hope you thought had died
(but comes back faster than it left,
in the form of a hot flash,
and shaky hands).

sometimes, life inundates you
in beauty and
candles, burning slowly
on a rainy night in the city,
or you see it in the fluffy white clouds
that drift by
and lull you back to childhood memories
as the sun blazes in the sky,
bright as his eyes.

life won't be kind to you always,
but just you wait, young girl,
for life will always have something to show you.

Unless otherwise indicated, all words here are property of Miss Malorie

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