I've learned that staying true to your morals and beliefs can be one of the hardest things to do in life. Especially when it involves going against someone you care deeply for. I've had to stand firm on what I was passionate about just to stay true to my being. In doing so, I had to leave a very important childhood friendship behind. Like the mysterious narrative Hills like white Elephants written by Ernest Hemingway, where the character Jig had to contemplate a very monumental fate that could change her life forever. It was such a tough decision for her because she wanted to make her male friend happy while trying to ignore what she truly wanted for herself. Unlike this untold ending, my life actually changed because I chose to follow what I felt was right. I respected my beliefs and my then friend did not. Now we are no longer in each others lives. 2 MinusIt was a cold bitter day as I sat in one of the two chairs in David's Bridal. My friend and I sat next to each other in silence. I could hear the wind whipping in the open space of the parking lot over the stiff elevator music playing from inside. I was tired from my two long bus rides to get here. I left work early due to my friends urgency to try on dresses today. I still had my jacket on while we waited for our other friend to come from behind the thick maroon curtain hopefully, to say yes to her would be wedding dress.
The three of us have always been close. However, only two of us were honest about the lives we lived and listened to advice given amungst our small group. The third who didn't like advice but always had some to give, was now coming from behind the curtain fully dressed in her clothes. "What happened, where are the dresses?" I said "Oh, I didn't like them. They all fit horrible." "Well, we didn't come all this way for nothing. We need to a least see what works best on you." "Fine, but I need new options because I hate these three that I picked" The sales woman quickly came over and scooped the three white dresses over her arm and hung them on a return rack. Before we could get impatient, the lady swiftly bought over two more options in the color cream. Ebony then returned behind the curtain to begin the try on process again. "How do you two feel about this one?" She said my seated friend tilted her head and shrugged. "It's ok." I said "just ok?" Eliza said "yes, its pretty but I think it could be better. lets see the other option before deciding." "This has to be the one" she said She let out a deep sigh before vanishing behind the thick rippling waves. She then appeared under the bright spot light wearing the second option. Her face lit up. "This is it" she screeched. "Are you sure?" I ask "Yes, I am! I need my mom to put the $500 deposit on it now!" She called her mom who said she currently didn't have the money. She let Eliza know she would be able to put a deposit down when she got paid on that upcoming Friday. She blew a gasket over the phone! Seeing her act out like this enraged me. "Can you believe her?" she said. "She needs to put something down on my dress TODAY!" "Well, Not everyone has the means to put a deposit down when you want them too." I said "They Need too!" And so do you! You need to put a deposit down on your $850 dollar bridesmaid dress by this week!" "I can't, I don't get paid until next week" "Next week? Girl that's a mess, you need to hurry up and do it when I say." "Excuse me?" I said annoyed "You heard me. I can’t afford to wait for yall to pay whenever yall feel like paying." "Well since you're rushing people" Did his wife sign the divorce papers yet?" "No!" "Well how are you rushing everybody to buy dresses and you don't even have your affairs in order? You may want to worry about him getting a divorce before you worry about a dress." Fire filled her eyes as they always did when someone pointed out her imperfections. "It doesn't matter!" She yelled "It really does." "This is my life and my wedding and I can get married to whoever I want, how I want." You're just mad that you didn't get proposed to!" She quickly grabbed her belongings and left the shop. I followed her out to the parking lot. I couldn't believe that I was being forced to partake in a marriage I didn't believe in. I also couldn't believe these words, the truth, finally escaped my mouth. "Eliza" I yell "Stop acting like that" "No, I'm not acting like anything". "Yes you are." "No, this is my life and as my friend, you need to go with the flow and do as I say." "And this is my life, I don't believe in marrying someone who is still married. I think you are worth so much more. You speak of how woman she be treated and what they should tolerate all the time." "Well this is different and I'm getting married to him regardless." "Just wait until she signs the divorce paper so your marriage can be legit." I said "NO! This is the way it is and yall need to act accordingly, like I said." "You sound desperate!" "DESPERATE?!! desperate, oh really??" "Yes!!! And I'm not putting my money towards a fake wedding! I have two children that I need to provide for who need the money more." It was silent. The American flag up above at the corner of the parking lot ripped wildly through the wind. It was so loud yet free as it danced through the crisp air. We looked at each other for a brief second but it felt like minutes. I felt like Shit. I was normally good at cushioning the truth but today I just let everything out because I couldn't take anymore of the Bridezilla attitude she was displaying. I could see in her eyes that she was pissed. She narrowed her eyes and then stormed off. I shrugged because I felt great and light now that she knew the truth. Hopefully she could also find the self worth she constantly preached about. Wishful thinking because she didn't. The next day she text our group about the deposit she needed us to pay. I told her that I loved her dearly but I would not be in the wedding as well as my other friend. To her, that was the equivalent to saying were no longer friends. I was crushed when I realized our break up was for forever. That our 3 way friendship had now been reduced to 2. That was ok because I felt good knowing I didn't support what wasn't right in my heart. I'm all about women empowerment and I believe that women shouldn't settle for crumbs and should acquire proper treatment in life.
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I recently had the pleasure of Hosting a paint party for young black girls living in the city. Its always nice when they are my clients because I get to let them experience art. Something a lot of inner city children don't get to partake in because that subject rarely receives proper funding from the school district. Or the children normally out number the teacher and nobody takes the class seriously and is treated like a second lunch. So normally their only point of a personal art reference is coloring in a coloring book or drawing smiley faces and stick figures. While at the party I was reminded by the delicate topic that runs wild in the black community: Colorism. Where did this poison come from? After reading Maya Angelou's My Name is Margaret It became clear. The non fiction piece took place 81 years ago. 81 years ago it was a crime to have any kind of brown skin. The people of that time were treated less human and more as moldable objects. Because of this literature, I have a closer understanding as to why black woman and little black girls world wide still have problems accepting their skin complexion. Telling the story in more depth In my Creative non fiction below. Painting Brown It’s mid day sitting in my hallway at my easel. Drinking warm passion tea on a cold winter day. I can smell the hibiscus and citrus aroma as the sun kissed the right side of my body. Here is where I get the most light in my home . From my huge single window that I purposely decided not to put blinds on and with one pull of my Smokey gray curtain I can see out of every inch of the window so perfect. The roof tops are covered in a light dust of snow and I can hear the wind wisping through the shutters on the outside along with Nina Simone playing softly from the speaker inside of the comfortable hallway. It’s a complete vibe. As I pick up my pearl white paint brush covered in old paint, I feel the old, dry paint flakes of purple, blue and brown connect with my finger tips. I run my fingers through the soft bristles before I dip into the paint. It all feels amazing. I remember when I lost my art. Or my urge to art. I was all over the place in life. I was doing and running around like crazy for others but somehow never taking out the time to do what was best for my being. The feeling of calmness takes over. As I start to paint, I hear the brush strokes back and forth and the feeling of joy sweep over me.
So Happy to reconnect with my art, I sat there for some time in deep random thoughts. One in particular was of the paint party I hosted just an week ago. It was with a group of young black girls all under the age of 13. We painted a black woman wearing a turban with positive words in each of the turbans folds. One fold pink with the word Queen. The next fold blue with the word honor, the following purple with the word humble. Next painted blue with the word love and the last fold pink with the word faith. That was the fun part of instructing. We then moved onto painting the face and I had to instruct the girls on how to mix brown. For beginners they made great representations of skin tone browns. I was actually very pleased but none of the girls were happy with their mixtures even though they were very close to their own skin color. Screaming “I hate my brown” “this ugly brown is messing up my painting” “I wish it was lighter” and even “ I should have just left it white”. Hearing these words cut me deep. To hear these young girls whine about how ugly brown was made me briefly heart broken. I was quickly reminded of all the conversations I had with my mother because she struggled with this terrible feeling her whole life. In our small family she was the darkest and because of that could never find the beauty. I would truthfully tell her how beautiful she was and what shades of color looked amazing on her skin and even how she was lucky that silver and gold both complimented her skin but still she thought I was just saying kind words because I was her daughter. 50 years later she’s just starting to find self love and I am more than proud but 50 years is such a long time for these young girls. Still standing in front of the girls, I quickly began to lecture them on how brown was beautiful and there was no such thing as a wrong brown. Making them giggle and feel silly of ever speaking down on the way God created them because there’s no error in that. Which reminded me of one Maya Angelou's Non Fiction narratives where she wrote about her time as a black girl working for a white woman named Mrs. Cullinan in My Name is Margaret. Mrs.Cullinan taught young Maya who at the time went by her Birth name Margaret, household gems that she didn’t learn growing up as a black girl. One evening Margaret was serving Mrs. Cullinan's and her lady friends. One of the women thought it would be wise if Mrs. Cullinan shortened Margaret’s name to Mary when speaking to her because it was just to cumbersome to keep addressing her by her given name. Surprisingly Mrs. Cullinan agreed and started calling Margaret, Mary for the rest of their time together. Margaret felt so low and disrespected. She felt So degraded that she wanted to be let go from her services. This treatment only happened because of the terrible time of the world and the color of her skin. Before I knew it, the sun went down and I barely had any natural light. Except for the light coming from me. Although I don't know how it feels to be “the wrong brown”, I still know how it feels to be brown and it feels good. I want more brown girls to feel this too. As I finish up my painting, I dip my brush in the cloudy water to clean off the beautiful brown paint and realize I would love to use my art to uplift what once was and still is diminished internally in the black community. I have two brown children so it's very important they as well see their skin to be beautiful and not a burden. I would love to be a light of self acceptance because there’s no way girls of today should wear the scars of their great grandmothers oppressors. |
Tiffany swanI will use this blog to express my thoughts, creativity, and lust for life through literature. Archives
May 2019
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