"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."
That was the completely unsympathetic and unsolicited advice I got from my friend, Theater Goddess, as I strolled the Yale campus one evening shortly after Number Two got arrested. I was recounting my tale of woe to her and a few other girls.
I expected sympathy.
After all, my boyfriend, had, quite tragically, just got arrested.
Her tone of voice was unapologetic, unsympathetic, matter-of-fact and almost bored.
"Anita, stop dating jailbirds."
I was hurt by her insensitivity.
Back then, I was egalitarian in my dating choices. I didn't discriminate based on educational level. I didn't discriminate based on social class. I didn't discriminate based on criminal record, drug use, sexual history, morals, values, looks.
I didn't discriminate at all.
I accepted whoever chose me.
That's why I cringe whenever some allegedly well-meaning black leader decides to help a sistah out by writing a book or making a speech about how educated, unmarried black women need to stop being so picky and just settle for whatever we can get.
To that I say, bullsh*t, bullsh*t, bullsh*t. Stop dating jailbirds. Stop dating men who have less education than you. Stop dating men who are in a much different income bracket than you. Stop dating men who don't share your values. Stop dating men who don't share your credit score. Stop dating men who have baby mamas (unless, of course, you have baby daddies).
Yeah, I said it.
Just stop.
Even if people call you a saddity b*tch. Even if it means being alone. Even if that leaves you with no one to date.
Just stop.
Dating boys who were uneducated, who were in and out of jail, who had baby mamas, who had sporadic incomes, who had low self-esteem, who had bad credit, who had values that weren't compatible with mine did not make me a saint. It didn't pull them up to my level. It dragged me down to theirs.
Have standards, girls, have standards. Stop dating jailbirds.
Showing posts with label Number Two. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Number Two. Show all posts
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
This is how women get AIDS
According to the Centers for Disease Control, African-Americans represent 12 percent of the U.S. population and 46 percent of those with HIV/AIDS. Looking back at my relationship with Number Two, it's easy to understand why.
Because we let our men dog us, and we don't stick up for ourselves in the ways that matter.
I have never had a grown-up conversation with a man about his sexual history before becoming his lover. (Partly because that would have meant divulging my sexual history. And partly because as a first-date kinda gal, I didn't do a lot of talking to begin with.)
I have never insisted that a man and I both get tested before having sex for the first time. (How exactly do you bring that up? "Here, honey, roll up your sleeve so I can draw some blood, and while you're at it, please give me $200 so I can buy this anonymous STD test, mail the sample to a lab and wait for the results.")
I have never insisted that a man wear a condom or else get out of my bed. (And I have a really juvenile confession to make about the reason why: It was one of my secret tests. "If he brings the condom and puts it on, that means he's a good guy, and he's responsible, and he cares about me." Yeah, right.)
I don't have AIDS or HIV.
Not because I was smart.
And definitely not because I was careful.
Simply because I was lucky.
I knew what I was supposed to do, but somehow I didn't have the courage, the nerve, the audacity, the outspokenness, the self-love, the assertiveness to do it. And I kinda hoped I could make it his job, like taking out the trash or opening the car door.
But the statistics don't lie.
Our men aren't going to protect us, because men don't like wearing condoms. And apparently, many don't like monogamy either.
It's up to us to protect ourselves.
It's been four years since my last sexual relationship, and I don't know when I'm going to meet someone I want to get hot, sweaty and horizontal with.
But when I do, for the first time in my life, I'm going to have to care enough about my health and well-being to actually insist that he get tested and wear a condom.
Am I the only one who finds this difficult?
- He was screwing me, his ex-girlfriend, and quite probably, other men.
- He was a "first-date-only" condom guy.
- He engaged in what medical professionals politely call a "high risk" sexual position where blood-to-semen contact is not uncommon.
- And, most importantly, I let him do all of the above.
Because we let our men dog us, and we don't stick up for ourselves in the ways that matter.
I have never had a grown-up conversation with a man about his sexual history before becoming his lover. (Partly because that would have meant divulging my sexual history. And partly because as a first-date kinda gal, I didn't do a lot of talking to begin with.)
I have never insisted that a man and I both get tested before having sex for the first time. (How exactly do you bring that up? "Here, honey, roll up your sleeve so I can draw some blood, and while you're at it, please give me $200 so I can buy this anonymous STD test, mail the sample to a lab and wait for the results.")
I have never insisted that a man wear a condom or else get out of my bed. (And I have a really juvenile confession to make about the reason why: It was one of my secret tests. "If he brings the condom and puts it on, that means he's a good guy, and he's responsible, and he cares about me." Yeah, right.)
I don't have AIDS or HIV.
Not because I was smart.
And definitely not because I was careful.
Simply because I was lucky.
I knew what I was supposed to do, but somehow I didn't have the courage, the nerve, the audacity, the outspokenness, the self-love, the assertiveness to do it. And I kinda hoped I could make it his job, like taking out the trash or opening the car door.
But the statistics don't lie.
Our men aren't going to protect us, because men don't like wearing condoms. And apparently, many don't like monogamy either.
It's up to us to protect ourselves.
It's been four years since my last sexual relationship, and I don't know when I'm going to meet someone I want to get hot, sweaty and horizontal with.
But when I do, for the first time in my life, I'm going to have to care enough about my health and well-being to actually insist that he get tested and wear a condom.
Am I the only one who finds this difficult?
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Girl-on-girl is just not appropriate
I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about fights. Of the Jerry Springer variety. Of the verbal sparring variety that I engaged in with Tay Tay over Number Two, a fool who didn't deserve either one of us and, as it turns out, was probably gay.
Tay Tay, to be sure, was ignorant and obnoxious. She called me up on more than one occasion to bait me with tales that "my" man was really "her" man. And the evidence is certainly in her favor, until we get to the fact that maybe "her" man wanted to be with a man.
Which would at least partially explain why he treated her – and me – so badly.
But at the time, my 19-year-old self blamed her for making him treat me badly, blamed her for continuing to be involved with "my" boyfriend, blamed her for being the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose, which is how I actually thought of her.
What I didn't consider at the time is that the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose was pushing a baby stroller and the baby in that stroller allegedly belonged to "my" boyfriend. The same guy who took me to her apartment on our first date to pick up his stuff.
Her side of the story was never told. So why did I blame her?
I have a hopefully more enlightened bottom line today when it comes to boyfriends and their baby mamas, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives, ex-whatevers, also known as "the horrible women who ruined his life":
Flash forward to my early 30's, three years after I broke up with Brown. I was in a relationship that wasn't serious or satisfying, but after three years of crying and walking the floor, it was my first attempt at moving on.
Ring, ring went my cell phone ... in my cubicle, at work. On the line was a 21-year-old chickie-poo with some dramatic story about how she got my number off her ex-boyfriend's cell phone. I was polite to her, even as I explained in an even tone that I wasn't interested in her or her drama.
And that night, I called the new boyfriend and explained that my problem was with him. He was sleeping with other women, and that wasn't something I had agreed to. End of relationship, end of story.
It's so much better when women treat each other with respect, instead of attacking each other.
Tay Tay, to be sure, was ignorant and obnoxious. She called me up on more than one occasion to bait me with tales that "my" man was really "her" man. And the evidence is certainly in her favor, until we get to the fact that maybe "her" man wanted to be with a man.
Which would at least partially explain why he treated her – and me – so badly.
But at the time, my 19-year-old self blamed her for making him treat me badly, blamed her for continuing to be involved with "my" boyfriend, blamed her for being the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose, which is how I actually thought of her.
What I didn't consider at the time is that the ugly b*tch with the wart on the end of her nose was pushing a baby stroller and the baby in that stroller allegedly belonged to "my" boyfriend. The same guy who took me to her apartment on our first date to pick up his stuff.
Her side of the story was never told. So why did I blame her?
I have a hopefully more enlightened bottom line today when it comes to boyfriends and their baby mamas, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives, ex-whatevers, also known as "the horrible women who ruined his life":
- Take whatever he says about her with a grain of salt. But do listen carefully, because what he says about her is probably remarkably similar to what he will one day say about you.
- Remember that he was there, too. He may talk about how she did this or she did that, but he ain't no innocent bystander. What was his part in accepting the drama or adding fuel to the fire?
- If you have a beef with her, your beef is really with him. If their relationship is really over, there is no you and her. It's you and him, and on a separate note, her and him. He's the responsible party, and the deserving recipient of your rage.
Flash forward to my early 30's, three years after I broke up with Brown. I was in a relationship that wasn't serious or satisfying, but after three years of crying and walking the floor, it was my first attempt at moving on.
Ring, ring went my cell phone ... in my cubicle, at work. On the line was a 21-year-old chickie-poo with some dramatic story about how she got my number off her ex-boyfriend's cell phone. I was polite to her, even as I explained in an even tone that I wasn't interested in her or her drama.
And that night, I called the new boyfriend and explained that my problem was with him. He was sleeping with other women, and that wasn't something I had agreed to. End of relationship, end of story.
It's so much better when women treat each other with respect, instead of attacking each other.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Hittting him where it hurt
I'm not sure whether the suspicion that Number Two was gay had ever crossed my mind or whether it was entirely planted by my new boyfriend, Conspiracy Theory. But once the suspicion took hold, a lot of things about my relationship with Number Two made sense.
Him calling me an "Eveready" in a sulky tone because I wanted to have sex and he didn't. Him sodomizing me. Even him going to jail.
The idea that being a chronic minor offender meant you were a gay definitely came from Conspiracy Theory. He claimed that all the "don't drop the soap" horror stories didn't apply all that much to the real penitentiary where the real inmates were. He claimed it was the local city jails where the real gay action took place. That guys who were gay but too chickensh*t to come out of the closet would find ways to get arrested so that they could hump the other in-the-closet short-timers.
It sounded plausible. Because I knew that Number Two was a revolving-door offender.
When he was arrested, he instructed me to call an aunt and uncle and ask them to bail him out. They refused to help him "this time" in a tone that suggested that "this time" was maybe the third or fourth or 10th time.
So now I believed Number Two was gay.
And that's what I threw in his face, the day I confronted him, fully enraged, over the fact that he still owed me money, had stolen my tools and had put a ding on my credit report.
The argument started over the money, but as it escalated, I threw it in his face that I was just someone he could "f*ck up the butt." Every time I mentioned his predilection for sodomy, he flinched. So I kept saying it. Loudly. With the intent to hurt him.
(For his part, he retaliated against me in a way uniquely common to black New Haveners confronting black Yalies: he kicked me out of the race, declaring that I "wasn't really black.")
By the end of my tirade, he was in tears. And I was riding high on a cloud of vindictive rage. I'd hurt him. Not as much as he hurt me, but it felt GOOD.
I saw him around occasionally after that. There was an exchange by the mall, where he gave me some of my owed money and also demanded that I return a tacky, chipped ring he had given me off his own finger. I flung it onto the sidewalk with all my might, against the advice of Abusive Psychic, who counseled me, "Anita, you're crazy. You never, ever give back jewelry."
Then there was the time I was walking past his tiny apartment, and he introduced me to a short, cute brother with pretty eyes as his "roommate." Roommate? His studio apartment was the size of a matchbox. The mattress on the floor took up the whole room. If they were roommates, they were sharing a bed.
And then there was the last time I saw him, a few years later, after I had graduated and moved to South Carolina to live with my mother. I was driving in the backwoods, in some godforsaken small town, with no idea of where I was or why I was there. I turned into a little gas station or convenience store to make a U-turn, and heard a voice say, "Oh no."
I looked up, directly into his horrified face. He was from South Carolina, and apparently had moved back home. I was the last person he expected or wanted to see.
I didn't even speak or acknowledge his presence. I just turned my car around and drove away.
And that concludes the Number Two diaries.
Him calling me an "Eveready" in a sulky tone because I wanted to have sex and he didn't. Him sodomizing me. Even him going to jail.
The idea that being a chronic minor offender meant you were a gay definitely came from Conspiracy Theory. He claimed that all the "don't drop the soap" horror stories didn't apply all that much to the real penitentiary where the real inmates were. He claimed it was the local city jails where the real gay action took place. That guys who were gay but too chickensh*t to come out of the closet would find ways to get arrested so that they could hump the other in-the-closet short-timers.
It sounded plausible. Because I knew that Number Two was a revolving-door offender.
When he was arrested, he instructed me to call an aunt and uncle and ask them to bail him out. They refused to help him "this time" in a tone that suggested that "this time" was maybe the third or fourth or 10th time.
So now I believed Number Two was gay.
And that's what I threw in his face, the day I confronted him, fully enraged, over the fact that he still owed me money, had stolen my tools and had put a ding on my credit report.
The argument started over the money, but as it escalated, I threw it in his face that I was just someone he could "f*ck up the butt." Every time I mentioned his predilection for sodomy, he flinched. So I kept saying it. Loudly. With the intent to hurt him.
(For his part, he retaliated against me in a way uniquely common to black New Haveners confronting black Yalies: he kicked me out of the race, declaring that I "wasn't really black.")
By the end of my tirade, he was in tears. And I was riding high on a cloud of vindictive rage. I'd hurt him. Not as much as he hurt me, but it felt GOOD.
I saw him around occasionally after that. There was an exchange by the mall, where he gave me some of my owed money and also demanded that I return a tacky, chipped ring he had given me off his own finger. I flung it onto the sidewalk with all my might, against the advice of Abusive Psychic, who counseled me, "Anita, you're crazy. You never, ever give back jewelry."
Then there was the time I was walking past his tiny apartment, and he introduced me to a short, cute brother with pretty eyes as his "roommate." Roommate? His studio apartment was the size of a matchbox. The mattress on the floor took up the whole room. If they were roommates, they were sharing a bed.
And then there was the last time I saw him, a few years later, after I had graduated and moved to South Carolina to live with my mother. I was driving in the backwoods, in some godforsaken small town, with no idea of where I was or why I was there. I turned into a little gas station or convenience store to make a U-turn, and heard a voice say, "Oh no."
I looked up, directly into his horrified face. He was from South Carolina, and apparently had moved back home. I was the last person he expected or wanted to see.
I didn't even speak or acknowledge his presence. I just turned my car around and drove away.
And that concludes the Number Two diaries.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
A Flower and Spandex Friendship
There was no getting back together with Number Two, but that didn't mean we were completely done with each other.
Toward the end of the summer, he called to give me some song and dance about how before everything happened with Tay-Tay, he was starting to fall in love with me. I politely told him it was over, but I had a false sense of serenity. I believed I could go back to New Haven and see him on a cordial, friendly basis.
I had spent the summer starving myself down to a size 6 and entering two "starter pageants," Miss Black World Michigan and Miss Michigan International. To my deep consternation, I failed miserably at being a beauty queen. Apparently, I couldn't walk. I didn't have the right clothes. I didn't have the right weave. And even though I was dizzy and hungry as hell from slurping Slim Fast plus one small meal a day, I was still considered 20 pounds "overweight."
I had also met a really good-looking guy on the Boblo Boat and convinced myself I was in love, even though we only saw each other a few times, and he kept stringing me along and standing me up.
But I digress.
When I got back to New Haven for my junior year, Number Two spied me strutting down the street in black-and-pink, floral-print spandex biker shorts. (Me and my booty were particularly effective at turning heads that day.)
Less than a week after returning to school, he came to see me with flowers in hand, and we went for a ride in my raggedy car, which promptly broke down for what felt like the millionth time. I didn't even have money for a tow truck, so I took Number Two's offer to buy my car for $200. He paid me $100 cash up front and was supposed to pay the $100 balance in a few weeks. Plus, I had left the tools my dad had bought me in the trunk.
I guess you can guess how this story ended.
Our new-found "friendship" was every bit as trifling as the love affair.
Fast-forward about five months, and this fool still owed me money. He claimed my jumper cables and toolbox had been "stolen." And on top of that, I had an $80 ding on my credit report from some stupid movies I had rented for him just before he went to jail.
It was time for another cuss-out session, only this time I was out for blood. And I cut him to the quick with what was really festering under the surface ... my nagging suspicion, egged on by my new boyfriend, that this fool was gay.
Toward the end of the summer, he called to give me some song and dance about how before everything happened with Tay-Tay, he was starting to fall in love with me. I politely told him it was over, but I had a false sense of serenity. I believed I could go back to New Haven and see him on a cordial, friendly basis.
I had spent the summer starving myself down to a size 6 and entering two "starter pageants," Miss Black World Michigan and Miss Michigan International. To my deep consternation, I failed miserably at being a beauty queen. Apparently, I couldn't walk. I didn't have the right clothes. I didn't have the right weave. And even though I was dizzy and hungry as hell from slurping Slim Fast plus one small meal a day, I was still considered 20 pounds "overweight."
I had also met a really good-looking guy on the Boblo Boat and convinced myself I was in love, even though we only saw each other a few times, and he kept stringing me along and standing me up.But I digress.
When I got back to New Haven for my junior year, Number Two spied me strutting down the street in black-and-pink, floral-print spandex biker shorts. (Me and my booty were particularly effective at turning heads that day.)
Less than a week after returning to school, he came to see me with flowers in hand, and we went for a ride in my raggedy car, which promptly broke down for what felt like the millionth time. I didn't even have money for a tow truck, so I took Number Two's offer to buy my car for $200. He paid me $100 cash up front and was supposed to pay the $100 balance in a few weeks. Plus, I had left the tools my dad had bought me in the trunk.
I guess you can guess how this story ended.
Our new-found "friendship" was every bit as trifling as the love affair.
Fast-forward about five months, and this fool still owed me money. He claimed my jumper cables and toolbox had been "stolen." And on top of that, I had an $80 ding on my credit report from some stupid movies I had rented for him just before he went to jail.
It was time for another cuss-out session, only this time I was out for blood. And I cut him to the quick with what was really festering under the surface ... my nagging suspicion, egged on by my new boyfriend, that this fool was gay.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Ign'ant Phone Calls
Why, oh why, did Tay-Tay call my house as soon as Number Two got out of jail?
Foster Mama didn't play that. She called Number Two and asked to speak to Tay-Tay. He refused to put her on the phone. So she told him in her meanest Foster Mama voice to "leave all that bullsh*t in Connecticut" because she "wouldn't have any of that breaking up her home."
Then I called. "Hello, is Tay-Tay there?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Anita. Put that bitch on the phone."
"Oh, man, I don't believe it," Number Two groaned.
"Well, believe it, baby, put that bitch on the phone!"
He handed the phone to her and click! That trouble-making bitch hung up on me.
I called right back. "Is there a motherf*cking reason why I was hung up on?"
"Uh ... the cord is broke," Number Two mumbled.
And that's when I started cussing him out from can't do to can't try. But it wasn't a particularly empowering cuss-out session. Because I was cussing him out for still being with her, instead of cussing him out for who he'd been to me. My tirade continued until he said, "I guess it's your turn to hang up now."
Bam! I took his suggestion.
By this time, Foster Mama and my foster sisters had gathered around like they had ringside seats to the most comical Friday Night Fight ever.
Number Two called back seconds later on Foster Mama's phone. I went into my bedroom, closed the door and called him back on my phone line.
"Anita, I don't understand why you're cussing me out. I haven't given you any reason to do that. I guess all this time you were secretly hating me and I just never knew it."
That instigated another barrage of cursing about how he threw me out at 3 a.m., how he didn't care about me, how he was stupid for still dating Tay-Tay.
"Anita, why are you cursing so much?"
"Because I motherf*cking can!!!! Now that I'm home with my family and I'm free, I can talk how I want, look how I want and be how I want, without somebody trying to change me into somebody else!"
Around this time, Tay-Tay started cutting up in the background. "Who's on the phone?"
"Tell that bitch Anita's on the phone!"
He didn't.
"Well since you're her motherf*cking guardian, give her this message. Tell her ugly black ass that she's a stank ho, and I'm just glad I didn't get her cooties."
Tay-Tay started throwing things. "Who are you talking to? Who's on the phone?"
Number Two, probably while ducking, gasped, "Tay-Tay stop that. Why are you breaking my stuff. That phone cost a lot of money!"
I continued screaming into the phone, until it dawned on me: This fool wasn't even paying attention to me at my angriest, most foul-mouthed best. Tay-Tay had truly won.
"Well, I hope you two live in unhappy bliss. Don't call me, and I never care if I see your face again, and tell that bitch she better not call my house no more, and if I see her face again, her ass is mine!"
With that I slammed the phone down, with red flames shooting from both ears, and yanked my bedroom door open to storm out of the room ...
... only to have Foster Mama and at least two sisters almost fall on top of me. They'd had their ears pressed to the door the whole time.
Foster Mama didn't play that. She called Number Two and asked to speak to Tay-Tay. He refused to put her on the phone. So she told him in her meanest Foster Mama voice to "leave all that bullsh*t in Connecticut" because she "wouldn't have any of that breaking up her home."
Then I called. "Hello, is Tay-Tay there?"
"Who is this?"
"This is Anita. Put that bitch on the phone."
"Oh, man, I don't believe it," Number Two groaned.
"Well, believe it, baby, put that bitch on the phone!"
He handed the phone to her and click! That trouble-making bitch hung up on me.
I called right back. "Is there a motherf*cking reason why I was hung up on?"
"Uh ... the cord is broke," Number Two mumbled.
And that's when I started cussing him out from can't do to can't try. But it wasn't a particularly empowering cuss-out session. Because I was cussing him out for still being with her, instead of cussing him out for who he'd been to me. My tirade continued until he said, "I guess it's your turn to hang up now."
Bam! I took his suggestion.
By this time, Foster Mama and my foster sisters had gathered around like they had ringside seats to the most comical Friday Night Fight ever.
Number Two called back seconds later on Foster Mama's phone. I went into my bedroom, closed the door and called him back on my phone line.
"Anita, I don't understand why you're cussing me out. I haven't given you any reason to do that. I guess all this time you were secretly hating me and I just never knew it."
That instigated another barrage of cursing about how he threw me out at 3 a.m., how he didn't care about me, how he was stupid for still dating Tay-Tay.
"Anita, why are you cursing so much?"
"Because I motherf*cking can!!!! Now that I'm home with my family and I'm free, I can talk how I want, look how I want and be how I want, without somebody trying to change me into somebody else!"
Around this time, Tay-Tay started cutting up in the background. "Who's on the phone?"
"Tell that bitch Anita's on the phone!"
He didn't.
"Well since you're her motherf*cking guardian, give her this message. Tell her ugly black ass that she's a stank ho, and I'm just glad I didn't get her cooties."
Tay-Tay started throwing things. "Who are you talking to? Who's on the phone?"
Number Two, probably while ducking, gasped, "Tay-Tay stop that. Why are you breaking my stuff. That phone cost a lot of money!"
I continued screaming into the phone, until it dawned on me: This fool wasn't even paying attention to me at my angriest, most foul-mouthed best. Tay-Tay had truly won.
"Well, I hope you two live in unhappy bliss. Don't call me, and I never care if I see your face again, and tell that bitch she better not call my house no more, and if I see her face again, her ass is mine!"
With that I slammed the phone down, with red flames shooting from both ears, and yanked my bedroom door open to storm out of the room ...
... only to have Foster Mama and at least two sisters almost fall on top of me. They'd had their ears pressed to the door the whole time.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Joyride
Getting put out of Number Two's house at 3 a.m. wasn't enough to make me break up with him. One week later, we were back together. Only now I kept my belongings in my dorm room and trusted him a whole lot less.
And so our relationship continued for two more months, until the whole thing took what can only be described as a Pitiful N*gga turn.
It was Memorial Day. My sophomore year was winding down, and I was planning to spend the summer in New Haven with him instead of going back to Detroit.
Instead, I found myself lying next to him on his on-the-floor-with-no-bed-frame mattress, trying not to make a sound as there was a knock, knock, knock pounding at the door.
"New Haven Sheriff! Open up!"
I literally remember thinking, "I'm a Yale student. I don't belong here."
Eventually, the sheriff went away instead of kicking the door down, but it didn't take much longer before Number Two's dumb ass went to jail.
For taking his baby mama, Tay-Tay, joyriding in my car. For getting into an argument with her. For pulling over on I-95 and putting her out. And for driving away and leaving her on the shoulder of the busy expressway.
By the time she walked to a call box, she was so angry that she told the police he kidnapped her. And that's why the sheriff came a-knockin'.
They had yet another screaming, hollering match in my presence.
Then Number Two got arrested.
There's something really pitiful that happens to a man when he's locked up. Suddenly he loves you more than anything in the world. Suddenly you're the person he cares about, when he's shown very little evidence of giving a good God damn up until that point.
This fool had taken Tay-Tay riding in my car. He was still seeing that bitch.
And now he had a brilliant solution to his problem, since I was such a loving person.
Tay-Tay had agreed to drop the charges, all he needed was for her to show up in court. So I was to be a good little wifey and pick her up in my car and chauffeur her to the Milford court house so he could get out of jail.
Yeah, right.
I packed my belongings, got into my car and drove all the way to Detroit.
He got out of jail two or three weeks later.
And so our relationship continued for two more months, until the whole thing took what can only be described as a Pitiful N*gga turn.
It was Memorial Day. My sophomore year was winding down, and I was planning to spend the summer in New Haven with him instead of going back to Detroit.
Instead, I found myself lying next to him on his on-the-floor-with-no-bed-frame mattress, trying not to make a sound as there was a knock, knock, knock pounding at the door.
"New Haven Sheriff! Open up!"
I literally remember thinking, "I'm a Yale student. I don't belong here."
Eventually, the sheriff went away instead of kicking the door down, but it didn't take much longer before Number Two's dumb ass went to jail.
For taking his baby mama, Tay-Tay, joyriding in my car. For getting into an argument with her. For pulling over on I-95 and putting her out. And for driving away and leaving her on the shoulder of the busy expressway.
By the time she walked to a call box, she was so angry that she told the police he kidnapped her. And that's why the sheriff came a-knockin'.
They had yet another screaming, hollering match in my presence.
Then Number Two got arrested.
There's something really pitiful that happens to a man when he's locked up. Suddenly he loves you more than anything in the world. Suddenly you're the person he cares about, when he's shown very little evidence of giving a good God damn up until that point.
This fool had taken Tay-Tay riding in my car. He was still seeing that bitch.
And now he had a brilliant solution to his problem, since I was such a loving person.
Tay-Tay had agreed to drop the charges, all he needed was for her to show up in court. So I was to be a good little wifey and pick her up in my car and chauffeur her to the Milford court house so he could get out of jail.
Yeah, right.
I packed my belongings, got into my car and drove all the way to Detroit.
He got out of jail two or three weeks later.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Howling at the Moon
My three-week romance with Number Two had already hit some interesting milestones: sex on the first date, sexual disempowerment and straight-up mind games, but as far as I was concerned, things were going well.
He was cute. I had a key to his apartment. I'd invested in my first answering machine so I could get voice messages from my increasingly vacant dorm room. And more and more of my CDs and personal belongings were making their way into Number Two's apartment as I spent more and more time there.
So I was caught completely off guard by what happened next.
One weekend, after performing in two shows, I made my way to his place.
He clearly wasn't expecting me.
Because he brought Tay-Tay, his baby mama/supposed ex-girlfriend over. The same one he dissed on our first date. Amidst much screaming, cursing and carrying on between him and Tay-Tay, he dragged me into his bathroom and looked at me through red-rimmed, tear-stained eyes.
He was sorry, he really did care about me and he didn't want to hurt me, but Tay-Tay was an asshole and something he just had to deal with, and could I please just leave.
At 3 a.m. in a crackhead city where a Yale student had been shot dead less than a week before.
Out the door I went, sobbing, with my CDs and miscellaneous belongings tucked into plastic grocery bags.
I had to hop a fence to cut through the parking lot on Broadway that separated his dark cubbyhole of an apartment from my dorm. One of the plastic bags ripped, scattering my CDs all over the concrete.
The city was silent, as still as death. Not a panhandler, crackhead or fellow Yalie in sight.
I looked up, and there was the moon. The biggest, roundest, yellowest full moon I'd ever seen in my life.
I stared at it as the tears streamed down my face.
Why was I so alone?
How come nobody loved me?
What was I doing wrong?
I had no answers, only questions.
It was one of the saddest, loneliest moments of my entire life.
He was cute. I had a key to his apartment. I'd invested in my first answering machine so I could get voice messages from my increasingly vacant dorm room. And more and more of my CDs and personal belongings were making their way into Number Two's apartment as I spent more and more time there.
So I was caught completely off guard by what happened next.
One weekend, after performing in two shows, I made my way to his place.
He clearly wasn't expecting me.
Because he brought Tay-Tay, his baby mama/supposed ex-girlfriend over. The same one he dissed on our first date. Amidst much screaming, cursing and carrying on between him and Tay-Tay, he dragged me into his bathroom and looked at me through red-rimmed, tear-stained eyes.
He was sorry, he really did care about me and he didn't want to hurt me, but Tay-Tay was an asshole and something he just had to deal with, and could I please just leave.
At 3 a.m. in a crackhead city where a Yale student had been shot dead less than a week before.
Out the door I went, sobbing, with my CDs and miscellaneous belongings tucked into plastic grocery bags.
I had to hop a fence to cut through the parking lot on Broadway that separated his dark cubbyhole of an apartment from my dorm. One of the plastic bags ripped, scattering my CDs all over the concrete.
The city was silent, as still as death. Not a panhandler, crackhead or fellow Yalie in sight.
I looked up, and there was the moon. The biggest, roundest, yellowest full moon I'd ever seen in my life.
I stared at it as the tears streamed down my face.
Why was I so alone?
How come nobody loved me?
What was I doing wrong?
I had no answers, only questions.
It was one of the saddest, loneliest moments of my entire life.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Criticism as a Form of Love
As much as it pains me to admit it, my head was completely twisted in knots when it came to love. I didn't know the difference between love and criticism. In fact, I thought that if you criticized me harshly, it meant you loved me. And I didn't even know that's what I thought.
Here's an example.
A week into our relationship, Number Two found an ingenious way to make me open up to him.
He'd already begun making fun of my glasses. As a welfare recipient from Detroit, I was used to picking out my all-purpose, utility frames from the Medicaid rack, and to tell the truth, I'd never given them much thought.
So he'd ask me why my glasses were so big and so out-of-fashion.
And then one day, he announced that he'd thrown my glasses away and that it would be a month before I'd be able to get new ones.
Instantly upset, I started cussing and carrying on.
Number Two calmly and shrewdly, in the midst of my emotional outburst, siezed the opportunity to ask me a bunch of personal questions.
Then he pulled my glasses out of his pocket and explained that he would never be inconsiderate enough to throw away anything of mine and that he just wanted to make me mad because "if I hadn't, would you have shared any of that stuff with me?"
He continued, "You don't talk to me, and that's not good. Communication is a very important part of any relationship."
How did I interpret that?
He truly does care about me.
Instead of being pissed off, indignant or offended, I was grateful. Because only someone who loved me would go through the trouble of making me mad in order to get to know me better.
Here's an example.
A week into our relationship, Number Two found an ingenious way to make me open up to him.
He'd already begun making fun of my glasses. As a welfare recipient from Detroit, I was used to picking out my all-purpose, utility frames from the Medicaid rack, and to tell the truth, I'd never given them much thought.
So he'd ask me why my glasses were so big and so out-of-fashion.
And then one day, he announced that he'd thrown my glasses away and that it would be a month before I'd be able to get new ones.
Instantly upset, I started cussing and carrying on.
Number Two calmly and shrewdly, in the midst of my emotional outburst, siezed the opportunity to ask me a bunch of personal questions.
Then he pulled my glasses out of his pocket and explained that he would never be inconsiderate enough to throw away anything of mine and that he just wanted to make me mad because "if I hadn't, would you have shared any of that stuff with me?"
He continued, "You don't talk to me, and that's not good. Communication is a very important part of any relationship."
How did I interpret that?
He truly does care about me.
Instead of being pissed off, indignant or offended, I was grateful. Because only someone who loved me would go through the trouble of making me mad in order to get to know me better.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sexual Ickiness
When you're new to sex, you don't understand that sex can be sticky, funky, smelly, nasty and just plain icky. You think it's going to be like a 1938 black-and-white movie – all rushing waterfalls and blasts of steam and heaving bosoms and breathtaking beauty.
Not so with Number Two and me.
The first nasty icky came about two days after our first sexual encounter. I was in his tiny closet of a bathroom taking a pee and when I wiped, out slid the condom we had used on our first date.
Having an active imagination, my first thought was that toxic plastic had been trapped inside me for two days, polluting my privates with germs and carcinogens. My second thought was that I might be pregnant or AIDS-ridden. And my third thought was, why didn't he tell me the condom slipped off and why did he leave it to rot inside my body?
I never asked Number Two for an answer. I never mentioned it to him. I just flushed the condom away and left the unanswered question to rot and fester in my own mind. Because asking it would have forced me to confront the unconfrontable: that my new boyfriend, who I desperately wanted to love, didn't give a good god damn about my well-being.
Things were moving too fast and going too well for me to start asking questions or making demands. Within three days of sleeping together, I already had keys to his apartment. I was spending an inordinate amount of time with him and basking in the glow of us "going together."
Losing my virginity to Latin Muslim had been an unromantic, push-and-shove, grunt-once-and-we're-done affair that hadn't left me feeling much in the way of enjoyment. Number Two was an improvement, more playful, more experimental, more sexually arousing.
So one night, after round one, I was hungry for more and started instigating round two. Only instead of happily obliging or playfully putting me off, Number Two glared at me and declared that I was like an Eveready battery, I always wanted more.
That word, Eveready, reverberated around and around in my skull like the dirty, pus-filled accusation it was.
I was a nympho.
I drained men dry.
Something was wrong with me.
I was not normal.
I was an Eveready, and Eveready was not a compliment.
This second instance of sexual ickiness led to the third and worst one: Number Two liked the sexual position most associated with male homosexuality, and I didn't know how to just say no. So on top of being an Eveready, I was also apparently really nasty, because I was doing nasty things that nice girls just didn't do.
We didn't talk about sodomy, just like we didn't talk about the mystery of the missing condom.
It became yet another internal injury left to clot and bleed, until many months later, when I threw it up in his face in a cloud of volcanic rage.
Not so with Number Two and me.
The first nasty icky came about two days after our first sexual encounter. I was in his tiny closet of a bathroom taking a pee and when I wiped, out slid the condom we had used on our first date.
Having an active imagination, my first thought was that toxic plastic had been trapped inside me for two days, polluting my privates with germs and carcinogens. My second thought was that I might be pregnant or AIDS-ridden. And my third thought was, why didn't he tell me the condom slipped off and why did he leave it to rot inside my body?
I never asked Number Two for an answer. I never mentioned it to him. I just flushed the condom away and left the unanswered question to rot and fester in my own mind. Because asking it would have forced me to confront the unconfrontable: that my new boyfriend, who I desperately wanted to love, didn't give a good god damn about my well-being.
Things were moving too fast and going too well for me to start asking questions or making demands. Within three days of sleeping together, I already had keys to his apartment. I was spending an inordinate amount of time with him and basking in the glow of us "going together."
Losing my virginity to Latin Muslim had been an unromantic, push-and-shove, grunt-once-and-we're-done affair that hadn't left me feeling much in the way of enjoyment. Number Two was an improvement, more playful, more experimental, more sexually arousing.
So one night, after round one, I was hungry for more and started instigating round two. Only instead of happily obliging or playfully putting me off, Number Two glared at me and declared that I was like an Eveready battery, I always wanted more.
That word, Eveready, reverberated around and around in my skull like the dirty, pus-filled accusation it was.
I was a nympho.
I drained men dry.
Something was wrong with me.
I was not normal.
I was an Eveready, and Eveready was not a compliment.
This second instance of sexual ickiness led to the third and worst one: Number Two liked the sexual position most associated with male homosexuality, and I didn't know how to just say no. So on top of being an Eveready, I was also apparently really nasty, because I was doing nasty things that nice girls just didn't do.
We didn't talk about sodomy, just like we didn't talk about the mystery of the missing condom.
It became yet another internal injury left to clot and bleed, until many months later, when I threw it up in his face in a cloud of volcanic rage.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Number Two
I got over Latin Muslim quickly. A week and a half after our jailhouse breakup, I had a new instant boyfriend, just add water.
Let's just call him Number Two. He was a security guard at Wawa, the convenience store where I stocked up on junk food and cough syrup. He was tall, slim and good-looking, in a soft, pouty-mouthed kind of way. He was 27, but looked 21.
Our affair started on a day when I was looking and feeling especially cute.
I'd somehow managed to scrape up enough money to get my hair done, something I hadn't done in months, thanks to my hoopty Ford Escort breaking down twice in less than two months. On top of the cash I had funnelled to Abusive Psychic in a vain effort to turn my bad luck around.
So there I was with a short, sophisticated "European" cut that made me feel sexy, when I bumped into him on the street. I told him I was about to go eat, and he invited me to dinner. Take-out Chinese at his place, a squished, dark, roach-infested basement studio apartment near the Yale campus.
He had landed there, he claimed, courtesy of his gold-digger ex-girlfriend "who didn't even have a fork when I met her." He set her up in a deluxe apartment, and she repaid his kindness by inviting other lovers there. Then, she lied to the police and claimed he "scratched" her and took out a restraining order that barred him from his own apartment. So in a haste to find a place to lay his head at night, he'd landed in this little shoebox.
Part of our date consisted of me driving him to his old apartment to pick up some of his things, only to have his ex refuse to open the door.
No matter.
We bought ice cream and candles and watched The Simpsons and laughed.
And as the night wore on, the platonic turned into the predictable. I asked if he had "protection," and he did, so we did it. Then in the morning, we did it without protection, because of course protection is only required the first time you do it with someone. After the first time, you are magically protected from pregnancy and AIDS, because anyone who wears protection the first time would never, ever be capable of giving you an incurable condition.
Or at least that's what you hope when you're 19 years old, you've only done it once and you're not very good at standing up for yourself.
Let's just call him Number Two. He was a security guard at Wawa, the convenience store where I stocked up on junk food and cough syrup. He was tall, slim and good-looking, in a soft, pouty-mouthed kind of way. He was 27, but looked 21.
Our affair started on a day when I was looking and feeling especially cute.
I'd somehow managed to scrape up enough money to get my hair done, something I hadn't done in months, thanks to my hoopty Ford Escort breaking down twice in less than two months. On top of the cash I had funnelled to Abusive Psychic in a vain effort to turn my bad luck around.
So there I was with a short, sophisticated "European" cut that made me feel sexy, when I bumped into him on the street. I told him I was about to go eat, and he invited me to dinner. Take-out Chinese at his place, a squished, dark, roach-infested basement studio apartment near the Yale campus.
He had landed there, he claimed, courtesy of his gold-digger ex-girlfriend "who didn't even have a fork when I met her." He set her up in a deluxe apartment, and she repaid his kindness by inviting other lovers there. Then, she lied to the police and claimed he "scratched" her and took out a restraining order that barred him from his own apartment. So in a haste to find a place to lay his head at night, he'd landed in this little shoebox.
Part of our date consisted of me driving him to his old apartment to pick up some of his things, only to have his ex refuse to open the door.
No matter.
We bought ice cream and candles and watched The Simpsons and laughed.
And as the night wore on, the platonic turned into the predictable. I asked if he had "protection," and he did, so we did it. Then in the morning, we did it without protection, because of course protection is only required the first time you do it with someone. After the first time, you are magically protected from pregnancy and AIDS, because anyone who wears protection the first time would never, ever be capable of giving you an incurable condition.
Or at least that's what you hope when you're 19 years old, you've only done it once and you're not very good at standing up for yourself.
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