A Deeva's Blog

My braids are too
tight. At least that is my perception at this moment in time.  Not because they are causing me pain,
but because they make my mind squint to see things in a manner I have never seen
them before.

My braids are too
tight because suddenly my view is one of under-appreciation, expectation and
demands that do not respect my value or my time. 

These visions are
foreign to me.  They can only be an
apparition in my imagination; and the result of my brain being squeezed into
delusion by hair extensions that have taken over the way I see
things—in my personal rear view mirror.

Someone wake me.
Pat the top of my head and tell me it is all just a dream—fermented in a
misconception—yeah that’s what I choose to believe, for that is the only
plausible reality.

It’s got to be the
braids!

The Nigerian woman
got carried away when she practiced her craft on my head while cursing in the
phone angrily at her lover. Within her steady fingers lay a concoction that
changed my perception—her curse was laid within each wrap of synthetic hair she
attached to my head—and here it lies…obstructing my vision. That’s the only
answer.

That’s what I tell
myself.

It’s what I
believe.

My braids are too
tight is a much easier pill to swallow in answering why I can finally see that
I’m being taken for granted while my needs are not being met; and ultimately
are being ignored.  A tensed head is the
only response conceivable as to why I see myself being mentally abused
in the form of perceived entitlement and subtle disrespect.

None of this is
really happening.  The way I see the
world is not really how it seems.  It’s
all just a bad dream.

My braids are too
tight.  I pray that is the culprit for my
mental tormentor of the night.

Otherwise, I have
to realize…that everything I am seeing—today, for the first time—is not a
figment of my mind.  Truth be told, I
have to face the fact that I am just too blind to accept the possibility that
there’s nothing wrong with my hair; but that there is something really wrong
with my reality.

Real Life “X Factor”

                For the last couple of weeks, I have been watching the show the “X Factor” trying to decide if it would be my new reality show of choice.  I was riding the fence on whether I would be a fan or not and the crucial moment that nailed it for me came at the end of the boot camp episode.  Four different groups of people would be told if they had what it took to make the grade.  The contestants would hear the words of whether they had the coveted “X Factor” that meant they were worthy of sharing the voice God gave them with the world.

              Night-time television is designed to bring drama, raise blood pressure, and build anticipation; but real life isn’t much different in what it delivers.  It’s all the same; whether on the small screen or within the walls of an individual’s own reality.

             As I straddled the fence of whether the show had hooked me or not, the results were announced; the look on the contestant’s faces brought a flash back for me of a sweltering night in New York City just a few weeks before.  A night when my life posed the question…“Lorraine, do you have the X Factor?  Do you have that ‘it’ ingredient to take things to the next level?”

               My eyes were glued to the set; as boys, girls, groups and my personal favorite, those over 30, waited to hear whether they would be given – yet ANOTHER chance to prove that they were worthy of living up to the world’s expectations and requirements of being able to seek out a destiny of living out their dreams.

               As those that would proceed to the next round were announced, tears of grateful acknowledgement fell from each of their eyes and from mine as well.

                I celebrated their joy with them. 

                I felt their emotion and experienced their excitement – all the while relieving my own personal experience.

                The X Factor…society’s nod of approval that you are being given a CHANCE to prove your worth, one mo’ gin (as they say). It’s the heaviest cross to bear on the shoulders of those that stand naked before the world with attempts to entertain it. It’s that “Showtime at the Apollo” moment where you either win over the crowd, or watch in shame as the sandman comes with a large hook and pulls you off the stage of your destiny amongst hands waiving back and forth in the air shouting for your immediate demise for wasting their time.

              The X Factor…a nod of acceptance to follow your believed talent or craft…receiving it is a feat that few try to accomplish and one at which most fail.

               But the power of that nod means the world to the receiver.

               While not a guarantee of anything at all, and really is only a mere moment in time of one’s life…the possibilities associated with the nod, has a power like none other, to soothe the soul of those that chase after it.

               I wasn’t in the arena that the ‘X Factor’ contestants were in that night.

               They are not my family members or friends.

               I do not know any of them from Adam. 

               It was not my life, my career or my dream on the line during the moment that they were experiencing…

              But I felt their anxiety. 

              I felt their pain.

              I was a kindred spirit with each of them as I thought about the moment in my own life when the AALA, my readers, my publisher and my God, all gave me a nod of approval and said, “We believe in you Lorraine enough to let you advance to the next level.”

             Wow.  That feeling is priceless.

             No matter how many breaths I take from that moment until my last, will compare to that moment of taking my breath away. Just like the air around each of the contestants on the ‘X Factor’ stage will forever be different from the air they have exhaled all of their life up until that moment and the air that they will breathe from now on.

           That air is different.  It has to be.  It’s blessed.  It’s more fulfilling.   

           It is unknown who of those that advanced on the show will ultimately have what it takes to make the ultimate grade of approval by society’s standards.  Much along the same lines is the mirror of my path as an author, for it is still unforeseen as to how things will play out for me in the long run. 

          But for that brief moment in time, I know that I felt the magic and I can only assume from their faces that they did as well.

           For a moment in time – I shared their journey, I had much appreciation for their efforts, and I was extremely grateful, along with the contestants on a simple reality TV show, as we all said thanks to those that threw us a bone of confidence in furtherance of our efforts to share our “Voice” with the world; and as each of us continually seeks a path of trying to develop the “X Factor” that allows us to attempt to entertain the world one more time.

           All writers have experienced it.  It’s that warm fuzzy feeling of joy when we’ve written something that we know is good. It’s that feeling of giving birth to a creative or thought-provoking piece. 

            For some, it’s a piece they wrote as a child, their first moment of self expression that they will never forget writing.  For others it’s a first poem or completion of the first chapter of what will ultimately become their debut book.  And yet still for a different sect of people it’s the sale of their first book, a moment which solidifies in the writer’s mind, more than anything else, that they are truly a writer because someone is willing to shell out hard-earned cash to read the words they have connected together.

            No matter what stage the feeling comes, it is still felt by ALL writers and there is nothing like the experience of your first time.

…Or is there?

            Since the debut of my novel, Mistress Memoirs, I thought nothing else could compare to “that” feeling.  Nothing else could bring me the same joy.

            But each experience as an Author proves me wrong.  Each night I write, as I compose my next novel, and as I stare out my bedroom window into the night, allowing the stars to be my inspiration as they guide my fingertips across the keyboard, I get “that” feeling as if the new book is my very first. 

            Each time I have a book signing and a reader has the look in their eyes as if they have just purchased a precious keepsake, I think to myself, “This is what makes it worthwhile” and my heart is filled with “that” feeling once again.

            And in the midst of these experiences, I ask myself why do I write.  And each and every time, the answer is twofold: I write because my soul says I HAVE to and I write because there is extreme satisfaction in entertaining others.  It’s a win/win situation for me. 

It’s at that point that I realize that when releasing my muse, I get the same gratification I received when initially stringing my first thoughts together in written format, and that makes me smile.  The long nights of writing, knowing I will pay for it in the morning through fatigue are worth it, because it’s fulfilling, and ultimately, for me…it always feels like the first time.

He breathes in me the breath of vitality.  Giving me anticipation of changing residence from the inhibited address that I own, to a more desirable zip code on the side of town known for sexually living.

He makes me feel primal. 

In a way I don’t quite totally understand.  Yet, I welcome.

His words are sadistic to me as I read them.  Their very existence DEMANDS I lean my head to the side and twirl my hair in my fingertips as I uncontrollably bite my bottom lip–like the innocent whore that I am.

I’m a virgin–to his type of seduction.

Untouched by his type of romance.

Pure–in owning an unbusted cherry to man of his caliber.

Everything in his aura gives me butterflies.  I can’t help but smell him through my computer screen.   And as I inhale, with the lustful nostrils of a virgin ready to taste the side of life that they have been missing;  my heart skips a beat when I think of him and at the prospect of giving myself away, at least in that regard; like it was the very first time.

http://peaceinthestormpublishing.blogspot.com/2011/02/in-her-words-lorraine-elzia-on-ask.html

          My fondest memory of Christmas comes from the first Christmas after my sister and I figured out that our gifts did not come from a jolly white bearded man in a red suit, but from our single parent mother who worked overtime at two jobs just to see us smile on Christmas day.

           We were the three musketeers; my mother, my sister and me.  It was us against the world and we seemed to hold our own.  The only time an outsider was let into the posse was for Christmas when my sister and me welcomed Santa into the fold. 

           In those early years, my sister and I never understood why Santa’s handwriting looked a lot like mommy’s on the tags on the gifts under the tree.  Nor did we understand why her prideful eyes held a little bit of jealousy as we sang praises to Santa for our gifts. 

          With age comes wisdom and if age doesn’t school you, other kids will.  Soon the proverbial grapevine told us there was no Santa and that our mom was the one supplying the gifts.  We didn’t want to believe them, but the left over cookies in the refrigerator and the half-drank glass of milk with her lipstick on the glass made her suspect.  It soon dawned on us that the schoolyard grapevine was right and Santa wouldn’t leave cookies in a fridge he wouldn’t visit again for another year and from everything we had been told about him, he didn’t wear Avon shade #12 lipstick either, so we knew the truth was that Santa and mommy were one in the same.

         After opening our gifts that first Christmas after our discovery, my sister and I allowed our mother to hang on for a little while to the belief that her daughters still had the innocent belief in fairytales and myths.  But that Christmas we just said how thankful we were for being fortunate enough to receive gifts; we no longer gave the glory to the man in the red suit.  Our mother’s eyes began to have less envy in them for the sleigh driver who had stolen part of her joy for years.  When she went into the kitchen she saw the note we had left on the plate of half-eaten cookies that said, “Thanks for all you do.”

         That Christmas, we started a new tradition, every Christmas morning we would go out in the front yard, lay down in the snow and move our arms and legs side to side leaving snow angles on our lawn.  Mommy was always in the middle with a daughter on each side.  We left our marks every Christmas morning that we didn’t need Santa or anyone else because we were, and always would be, the Three Musketeers.

An ant can carry 20 times its weight.

 I’m willing to place a bet that the average woman carries double that amount on her shoulders on a daily basis. And like the ant we do it for survival and protection of the colony…maintenance of the home.

 The ant is small, seemingly powerless, and insignificant in the eyes of more aggressive and hurtful prey. Yet it still functions, accomplishing miraculous deeds day by day, carrying the weight of others on its back so that “its” kind may function, survive and thrive.

 Such is the plight of WOMAN.

We move mountains…

Fragile in our thoughts and emotions

Mighty in our accomplishments and deeds.

 Our homes,

Our jobs,

Our children

and mankind in general

would cease to be

without the equation of those that are womanly…..

 So next time your world is overwhelming

Next time you feel the weight of the world rest solely on your shoulders,

liken yourself to the ant.

 Relish in the fact that because of YOU

Others live

Because of you

Others survive

Because you carry more than your own weight

Our world can thrive.

 So Ms. Ant….

embrace your destiny,

And if you ever feel like you can’t take all of the pressure upon yourself any more….

whistle this song, wink and smile:

 Just what makes that little ole ant, think he can move a rubber tree plant…anyone knows and ant, can’t… move a rubber tree plant…but he’s got high hopes….And anytime you’re feeling low, ‘sted of letting go, just remember that ant CAN….move a rubber tree…move a rubber tree…move a rubber tree plant!

 You are the ant. 

You can move a rubber tree plant and anything else you put your mind to do.

You might be carrying the world on your shoulders

But the possibilities in you dictate that you should shake off the thoughts of “I can’t” and replace them with “I can, and I will.”

(Previously shared with some)

I never have to wonder when my mother knew I had come of age.  There were two events that caused it and after each she never looked at me the same. The first was when I got my period for the first time.  After a day and a half of crying, she got me some library books, video tapes then had a long conversation with me about how I was a woman now and that my body had matured to do what it was designed to do. She never looked at me the same. 

The second event was when I wrote in my diary about my first sexual encounter.  I poured it all out there, the good, the bad, the ugly, it was all written in a book that was supposed to be for my eyes only.  Yet she looked.  She saw. She was mortified. I tried to cover it up once I knew she had seen it by saying I only wrote what I did because I knew my nosey sister was reading my diary, so I wanted to give her something juicy to bust her on later as proof she was spying.  My mother didn’t buy it, but she acted like she did.  I’m sure she hoped and prayed that my lie was the truth, but deep within, we both knew her heart told her otherwise and her eyes never looked at me the same.

Those two incidents screamed to her that her baby was no longer her baby. From that point on she knew that I was a woman, or at least on the road to becoming one.  I think she was more hurt at me losing my youth than she was disappointed in my actions.  But either/or…things had changed. Her baby was becoming the same as her…a woman and I know that part of her heart ached because of all that entailed.

Today my heart aches.  It’s a feeling that you have to be a mother to truly feel. It’s that moment that your child crosses over; the moment when they are no longer innocent and have made the transition that defines all adults at some point or another–the pursuit of lust.

I knocked on his door as I always do before entering.  His room is his haven, and I respect that.  He did not hear me knocking.  He had no time to hide what he was viewing. As the door to his room opened there it was on a full 21-inch computer screen.

Porn. 

At first my motherly eyes that normally look at my son with a crush of him being perfect, thought I had entered the wrong room and had entered my 19 year olds room instead.  But that wasn’t the case. 

Sweetness…my pride and joy, my 16 and a half year old virgin, my football player extraordinaire, my innocent child, the one that every teacher loves, the one with the good grades, the Morris chestnut looks and the perfect smile, the one that parents come up to me at games asking can they adopt…

 ’Sweetness’ was looking at porn.

Our eyes met as he tried to down size the screen.  I just looked at him and left the room.

His brother came in my room as I sat in shock and I told him, “I just saw your brother looking at porn.”  Will chuckles and tries to comfort his dramatic mother.  “Ma, it was bound to happen, he’s 16, that’s what boys do as they come into manhood.  Just be happy he was only looking when you came in.”

I sent hubby a text at work and told him what I saw, his response…”It was bound to happen, he’s 16.”  Then he told me he would heighten the security on the computer.

Both of those 3^rd legs could not feel my pain.  Hummm…I guess you have to be a mother to understand. I can’t say that I am really disappointed because having a 3^rd leg does cloud judgment when you have sperm on the brain.  But I guess I am just hurt.  Because for the first time, I feel what my mother felt when I got my period and when I lost my virginity.  I guess I am just sad because this signals the end of his innocence.  I guess I am just seeing my baby disappear and a man emerge.  I guess I just don’t want to let go of the child-like beauty that I could always witness through his eyes. 

All of that is gone and I know, much like my mother, I will never look at him the same.  I think that is what hurts most.

There will be discussion about this tonight…actions will be taken concerning his computer to block him looking at porn, but in the end, tonight Sweetness joined the number, and I had to realize that men will be men, even if the man is a boy.