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In Lieu of "I'm Okay"

Cold weather sads take over my head and make it so hard to get out of bed.  Too tired to stand and make all my meals, and Uber eats rarely has deals.  Inside my chest there are tiny sobs that no one but me can feel.  I can’t tell if the sadness is a metaphorical joke or if my depression is real.  Who do I call who I won’t bring down with this negative space I take up?  No desire to get dressed or go out or even put on a little makeup.  I don’t know what I need, and it makes my head feel crazier than makes any sense.  Should I cry into my pillow or distract with TV - I’m genuinely on the fence.  I daydream about getting on a train and just going to God knows where.  But then I remember how much it would take  just to get from my bed to my chair. I think of Khalid, cold and alone, sleeping inside of his car.  The sibling who grew up in the next room but emotionally lived very far. I cannot get him out of my mind, and there’s nothing I can do. I tried to help him a handful of times but co
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The Unraveling

Me and cornrows go back a long time. Longer than any other style. When you first get a fresh set of cornrows, first and foremost, they are TIGHT AF. The patterns are neat and in sync, so you just take an aspirin and go on feeling yourself. The braids shine from the Jam and that Pink spray, and people usually compliment you and admire them. It is important to note, however, that cornrows can be an extremely high maintenance style - if you want them to last.  The Cornrow Commandments: You must wear a bonnet or sleep on a satin pillowcase every night.   Cleanse and Oil thy scalp regularly.  Hold fast to your edges - at all cost.  Moisturize your ends dutifully.  Don’t neglect the process. My friendship with her is like a head of cornrows.  Please know, that even if you wear the bonnet and worship your scalp with TLC, at some point, your parting spaces will fade. The frizz will slowly take hold of your head like a halo of static, and you will begin to come down from the new-hairstyle-hig
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"Worthy of More," or "Ni**as Ain't Shit" - Its a Working Title

This piece was written on June 22, 2020 about a fuckboy who I caught feelings for during the beginning of the pandemic. I am not an option.  I am not an option. I am not an option. I need to make myself understand this and remember it. This blog post is reflective of the disappointment I feel at the moment, but more importantly, it is reflective of the fact that I will be okay. I’m a dope-ass-person! And I deserved more than the way I was regarded during this entire period of COVID-19. For months I watched someone who I cared about, start to see me as an option. In the beginning, I got a taste of what it was like to be one of his priorities. The quality time was dope and highly enjoyable. I saw him often. Homeboy was cute and really affectionate. But then Corona hit. And less quality time was had. He would say it would be different “when things go back to normal…” At that point, no one knew it would be a three-month quarantine stretch, and counting. I missed him a lot, but I was hopefu
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Black Pain - An Ancestral Prayer

Black pain seems too difficult for America to consider. How it travels through our blood lines  until white folks started calling it  anxiety. depression. bipolar disorder.  Black pain sounds like blood rusted chains against shin.  Sounds like the crack of a whip,  the cries of a child torn away from their mother.  Sounds like silent death of black-girl-dignity up on auction blocks. Black pain sounds like howling bellies and field hands.  Are you deaf to it, America? Too much cotton in your ears?  Our pain sounds like church gospels.  Like black mothers singing hope harmonies.  Sounds like wading water and escape. Strong brown feet desperately pounding the earth. Praise our black feet. Praise our black spirits.  (I get mine from my mother. It stay weary, but alive at the same time) Our pain sounds like trumpets and rhythm.  Like blues and soul and prayer.  Like hip hop and jazz.  Like praise. A song we dance to on Sundays In white skirts t
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Miles to the Bathroom

A poem for how I feel most mornings, during the colder months. My rubber band skin is stretched too tight today.  Every sound plucks at me like broken guitar strings.  Stomach knots anticipating subway strangers  rubbing against my nerves like cricket legs;  Like rattlesnakes vibrating against my skull,  Or some panicked  animal , burrowing. I was asked to still go in to work,  Despite this burning knot in my back.  Despite my angered, tugging skin,  The bed sheets tethered tightly to my ankles,  The salt-burns in my eyes.  This anvil where my head should be... “Be an adult and get up, Kalima. You can't miss another meeting. Get up and do not let them down again.” I shove my body forward. Toothbrush. Towel.  Clean washcloth from the drawer. I sink back down to the bed; It is still miles to the bathroom. I move the blackout curtains to the side for help, But it is raining. And so am I.
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When My Brother Calls

Having a loved one with severe mental illness is a whirlwind all its own. To care for someone with all your heart, and not know how to help or interact with them is an aching heaviness I try my best to unpack when I have the capacity. Its hard being a good sister when I don't know how to answer his calls. When My Brother Calls  Suddenly I am frozen. I try to remember the last time I heard from him. Maybe he’s going to ask me for money to help pay off another credit card he maxed out. I’ll tell him i can’t help this time. He’ll say I never do. He’ll yell. He’ll curse. I will listen, Paralyzed and quiet, never fanning the flame. Temples throbbing Eyes leaking - wishing I had a spliff. The phone vibrates in my hand, (Don’t answer it.) When he was really little, I’d tell him we were friends and he would glow like morning. His name waits impatiently on my screen, What if he’s manic again... (Don’t answer it.) But maybe he had an episode in a white neighborhood w
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Im Telling the Truth, But I'm Lying (after Bassey Ikpi)

Throughout my entire life, there have been periods, sometimes year-long periods, where I don’t do much reading. No books, no magazines, no newspaper articles- nothing. Usually, those intervals are directly connected to how my mental health is doing at the time. One could argue that it makes sense to read more often when I have my worst mental health days. Getting submerged into a world that isn’t my own does sound like an amazing way to self medicate my depression. However, my flare-ups manifest themselves as an inability to focus on anything for a long period of time -  least of all, books. I can not successfully absorb new information when everything in me is exhausted from simply trying to get through each day without succumbing to the sinking void caged between my ribs. It SUCKS. More intensely, it is embarrassing, and it makes me feel like such a fraud. I mean, what kind of writer goes years without reaching the end of a single novel?  A Hero's Memoir Until a few weeks ago
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The Day She Arrived/ Luna’s Haiku

She lay in my arms A cotton ball of promise    Delicate as love. 
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Holy Crap, Grad School Starts Tomorrow

There was one day, during my 3rd year of undergrad at Lehman College, that I will never forget. I woke up that morning with tremendous anxiety, and my stomach was quite unsettled throughout the day. There was so much homework due, and I felt completely drained. For weeks, I barely slept, and when I did, I had nightmares about failing and disappointing everyone I cared about.  That day, I was hanging up flyers for a Rainbow Alliance event in the empty classrooms inside Carman Hall. Suddenly, I just burst into tears. I had been struggling with constant depression and anxiety for months, and my grades were suffering, even in my English classes. It did not feel like I was anywhere near close to graduating. By that point, the pressures associated with school felt completely out of control. My friends constantly told me how strong they thought I was, but getting to the end of each day took so much emotional energy that I did not have. I took out my phone, and by instinct, called my mothe
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Holding Myself Accountable

The other day at work, my boss and I were interviewing a potential employee, and we asked him what kind of writing experience he had. He mentioned that in college, his professor presented him with an opportunity to be a “sensitivity editor.” My ears perked up, because I had never heard of that before.  He said that he was responsible for, “editing the content of a piece of writing based on what an audience might find offensive (racist, sexist, homophobic or transphobic, etc). Figuring out what is objectively offensive/not publishable versus what may be subjectively offensive, and figuring out the difference between those two things based on the context of the writing.”  Basically, authors hire sensitivity editors to look over their work before it is published, to catch anything that might cause a reader to sue them. I remember thinking, as our interviewee was speaking, that I could totally be a sensitivity editor as my new side hustle! I consider myself an extremely empathetic person
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To Be Extroverted and Excluded

This past weekend I was in Miami for my good friend Angie’s bachelorette getaway weekend. It was truly a magical experience! 13 femmes on one trip and there were nothing but good vibes! Also, the ladies in our group were ALL unbelievably attractive, so that was a huge bonus for me! I would love to say what happens in Miami stays in Miami, but I have FAR too many pictures and videos to hold up that promise… (Look out for my blog post about the male strip club experience! Coming soon. No pun intended, whatsoever!!!) I was so appreciative that Angie invited me on the trip with her bridal party. She and I have been friends since Acting 1 class in undergrad. It was about 7 years ago, when she was still a brace face and I still had a baby face. She’s always been someone I felt I could be open with and talk about my personal struggles with, and I truly value our friendship. Even with that being the case, I have to say, I was very surprised that I was invited. Honestly, it made me extremely
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Fat Before It was Trending

"It was almost like, when I looked in the mirror, I couldn't even see how I actually looked. I only saw how others viewed me." The other evening, I had a deep phone conversation with someone I'm dating. Just for background purposes, this person is a beautiful, black, self identified fat femme, who's body positivity is one of the reason I am very attracted to her.  The people I date are usually plus size, because in addition to finding full-figured folks sexy as hell, I like that we have that in common. (Ever since I started dating my ex, five years ago, I have learned to embrace my body type, and use the word fat differently; no longer as an insult, as most of us are conditioned to use it, but simply a way of describing one's body type.)  Artists like Lizzo have also helped me feel a confidence about my body that I never EVER had before. I feel like there is an entire community of fat people, particularly fat femmes, who shout self love and body positivity
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Rambling Through Dark Spaces..

We are taught to have a word to accurately depict our feelings. Sad, Happy, Joyful, Angry. But what if there is a consistent sinking un-wholeness in your gut? Waking up every morning feeling so sick to your stomach from anxiety that you literally cannot eat breakfast. What is that called?    Most days it is a struggle to get out of bed. I wonder if people actually know what that is like. Sometimes I wake up knowing that I don't have enough mental/emotional strength to get me through the day. I am on antidepressants, yes. But these days, they only help some . I have no psychiatrist for my refill, and that scares me. 14 pills left before I'm in a bad situation. What if I fall further into the void? What if I can't control my emotional issues at all? How will I keep up at work and at home without them? I am so scared of that reality, and the fear gets to me. I have been calling psychiatrist after psychiatrist with no luck. "Not taking new patients, sorry." and &qu
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On Being Nappy in Elementary School

Sixth grade with the year you were supposed to ask mom for a relaxer; The year to trade afro picks with butterfly clips; To let new straight hair fall in ribbons over the glittery plastic. Sixth grade was the year to start patting your hair when it itched, To carry combs in your pencil case, The year the word “nappy” bruised like a punch on the playground. I remember the year I was the only one who still  had ki'chens The only one with braids and beads and tin foil tips. I bought a cheap butterfly clip at the corner store one day; Tugged my dark cotton blossom into a twist and pinned it down like a fight. It did not fall in ribbons. It did not stay down as easily as self esteem As easily as a broken spirit. Sixth grade was the year I begged my mom for a relaxer. The only year I cried during the burning. I will always remember that first burning. I walked into school school that Monday, my scalp a mess of concealed scabs And dark limp strands grazing my should
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She Saw Me Without My Wig

I am someone who tends to  over think and over-plan things. Honestly, the only way to keep my brain less scattered is to be ready for anything. I like to know how my days will be scheduled in order to be fully prepared for any little thing that might come up.  I’ve been getting to know someone special for a couple months now, and, she is super dope! I'm really enjoying the time we get to spend together. She’s kind, sweet, funny and we have good conversations, which is so rare these days. Not to mention, she seriously turns me on at the best moments… but that’s another blog post entirely! For my birthday in March, she surprised me with tickets to a Broadway show I was dying to see, called The Prom - and truthfully, it was the sweetest gift I had gotten in a while. I wanted to look amazing the night of the show - not solely for her, but for myself as well. I wanted to feel confident, like the Queen I am in my head. The night came and I had on my best hair: a long wavy dark brow
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Where Did My Brother Go? Part 2

Fluctuating Faith Khalid was absolutely on a downward spiral. Eventually he was asked to leave St. Peter and St. Paul because of his behavior issues, so my mom enrolled him into another Catholic school.  The academics in Mount Vernon public schools were not as challenging as she wanted for us, so we always attended Catholic schools going forward. My mother always wanted the very best for us. Actually - let’s take a pause on Khalid. I want to talk about my mother because she is a huge part of this. My mom is literally Superwoman. During our entire childhood, she presented us with so many valuable opportunities. In addition to putting us in the best schools she could afford, we were enrolled in dance classes, swimming classes, gymnastics, math and science tutoring, painting, pottery, drawing, double dutch, karate, piano, guitar and basketball. (Wow! When you see it in writing, it’s even more impressive!) She was the carpool driver for all of Khalid’s many basketball games, and even
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Where Did My Brother Go? Part 1

I stood behind the door leading into the psychiatric unit of Mount Vernon Hospital. I peered into the window and waited to be buzzed in. Beyond the door, Khalid was standing in the hallway, in a white hospital gown, talking to someone - perhaps his girlfriend - on the payphone. He had taken out his cornrows without detangling, and his hair was quite disheveled. He looked up and his eyes met mine through the door’s glass window. I waved, not knowing what to expect in return. He just stared in my direction with a blank expression, almost looking through me instead of at me. I wondered if it was a one-way glass mirror or something. After locking away all of my belongings, and giving me a once-over with a metal detector wand, a nurse let me into the hallway where my brother stood. I smiled nervously, and took a few steps toward him, when suddenly, his eyes narrowed at me as if I were someone who betrayed him. “Do not take another step." he sneered. "Turn right back around and ge
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