tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65093064297540719412024-03-04T20:36:18.517-08:00You're Supposed To Write ThisLe blog of Stacy-Ann Ellis. Enjoy.Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-79939195805771693112022-09-11T08:00:00.002-07:002022-09-11T10:22:25.113-07:00"Find Christ At The River"As soon as the brown heap landed in her lap, Sylvie knew hell could come as quickly as she wanted it to. It was wet and cold when it hit her, splattering into a million little blobs at the base of the white swimsuit making its first appearance all summer. Grainy chunks spread out across wide thighs, over the hibiscus plant neatly drawn around the right one, peppered with pores. It wasn’t even the good kind of sand; the white, wispy, Sandals resort in Cabo kind of sand. It was ruddy, river dirt sand. The kind people who didn’t live close enough to a proper coast had to settle for. The kind that when it sticks to your toes makes them sooty instead of ashy. The kind that stains your beach towel. The kind that when sugar-high kids play with it, it becomes mud pies instead of sandcastles, and when it lands in your lap—the lap of a stranger trying to sunbathe—it doesn't sting so much as make you stew.<br /><br />She imagined herself grabbing a fistful of it into her hands, snatching up the blonde girl snickering at the water’s edge by her arm and shoving it into her mouth. Shut her and her sister up. Then return to her tanning spot to wait as the cops came, rifles drawn and ready. She’d heard stories about redneck Buffalo. Dodging heaven could be so easy.<br /><br />Sylvie fiddled with the loose threads in the center of her King-sized fitted sheet, bleach spotted but useful, stretched taught by tucking the heaviest of her belongings into its elastic creases. A Harry Potter book with a waxy, folded receipt pointlessly bookmarked between pages 9 and 10, the same place it had been for the last two months. A set of Birkenstocks leaning against a dingy cooler holding more ice than Coronas. A bundle of street clothes beside a mini-boombox, its charge worn out thirty minutes ago. Two oversized purses.<br /><br />“That looks like baby shit.” <br /><br />“Shut the fuck up, Dennis.”<br /><br />Dennis pursed his lips quietly, rolling his eyes behind his cat-eye shades and turning his attention back to the water. His red hair glinted underneath the sun, brushfire shined over with pomade, fighting against his Godiva brown skin, silver bullring, and the tight, striped Versace briefs for attention. He waved a delicate hand at the mess, unbothered, cool as a cucumber, as if two sun-averse terrors with inattentive parents didn’t just chuck sand towards the only two black people on the beach. “I’m just sayin’. You look like you shit yourself.” Eyes down, Sylvie thought about the absurdity of how she looked; pitiful, like an old broad who couldn’t contain her own movements.<br /><br />Dennis was the kind of annoying that you got used to after you stopped fighting against it. Hell, maybe even grew to enjoy it. Not Jacob, though. To him, Dennis was a nuisance. Why Sylvie didn’t pick a female roommate was beyond him, and he didn’t laugh when she joked that Dennis was one of the closest girlfriends she had. Ever since the night he tiptoed out of Sylvie’s bed and was greeted by Dennis in the cramped apartment’s only bathroom, slowly massaging his cheekbones into the mirror, the thorn of his presence remained lodged in his side. “Y’all were noisy tonight,” Dennis had told him with a wink, smirking beneath his face cream. Jacob had returned to bed cussing, stirring Sylvie out of her satiation. As he huffed back under the covers, Dennis had texted her: “Whoops. Did I do that?”<br /><br />Sylvie laughed to herself. Anyway, maybe shoving it into their mouths was too harsh. Maybe it was better to just return the favor, scoop up the mess in her hands, ball it into a tight mound, channel her inner Yankee and pitch it back at them. Stringy strands clinging to the side of their wet faces, scraping more dirt-sand from the Niagara into their buckets. She’d eye them as they fussed, nursing the spots on their arms where it stung them.<br /><br />“I know that look, Syl. If you’re gonna go off the rails and get yourself arrested, let me know now so I can start packing up our shit. ‘Cause I ain’t bailing your crazy ass out. Gonna have to call Jake for that.”<br /><br />Dennis watched her canine teeth creep into view. “You know he hates when you call him Jake like that, right? Anyway, ain’t gonna do nothing crazy. Just send it back, is all. Bet those badass kids wouldn’t throw it again. <br /><br />“And what happens when their Momma come back?”<br /><br />“Let her come. She can get one, too.”<br /><br />He waved her off, resting his hand gently over his eyes, sitting up. “You trying to go to hell, but God must be trying to gift wrap your intervention.”<br /><br />She followed Dennis’ gaze out onto the water. Three men stood in the shallow murk up to their hips, fully covered in tee shirts and shorts despite the early September balminess. A tall man stood between two other gentlemen, holding his nose as they covered him in scripture. Sylvie couldn’t look away.<br /><br />Sylvie wasn’t the churchy sort. Not by choice, anyway. Like any other Black girl who grew up far below the Mason Dixon, she’d been dragged into slick wooden pews for the better part of her youth. Sneaking extra snacks from the table after Sunday school even though she’d been explicitly told one cookie per kid. Listening to warbling old ladies in the choir profess their off-key praises, rolling her eyes at congregants shouting <i>“Yes! Let him use you!”</i> no matter how far away their voices were from heavenly exaltations. Shaking the hands of the pastor, ushers, organist, liturgist, lay leader, kitchen ministry, and literally anyone else Ms. Eleanor insisted her little girl say “good morning” to out of respect.<br /><br />Moving to the north for college drew a logistical wedge between Sylvie and the Methodist sanctuary that raised her. The distance was an ironclad excuse; a repellant for church aunts who hovered with an endless list of building tasks and committees that needed youth staffing. Four years had passed since she turned her tassel onstage, so she longer bothered to try harder than “He knows my heart” when her mother asked about the last time she read her Bible or when she was joining a church. Sylvie was lazy when it came to the Lord. That she could admit. But there was a difference between a lack of effort and a lack of respect. Reverence in His presence was still a part of her, instinctive, settled deep in the marrow of her bones.<br /><br />So she could feel the heat of anger flush her cheeks as adolescent squeals cut into the prayer fragments she could make out from the casual reverends holding the man’s back and head as he centered himself for the cool wash of Christ. Just to the right of them, the girls scraped loudly at the ground with their hands, splashing in the lapping waves of would-be holy water, unconcerned about the doings of their maker.<br /><br />Dennis had already rolled back over, briefs hiked up higher to get the last remnants of sunshine to work its magic on the cups of his behind. But Sylvie’s unblinking eyes followed as, with one swift lean, three visible bodies became two, then three again. The baptized man, freed from the protective grip of his dunkers and drenched ‘til his white tee went clear, raised his hands in the air, eyes to the sky as onlookers cheered.<br /><br />“Hallelujah!”<br /><br /><i>Hallelujah.</i> Sylvie couldn’t help but look up, too. She wouldn’t be able to explain to Dennis why exactly she looked up or what she was looking for. But she watched a gaggle of seagulls cawing above her circle over the river bank before depositing their loose, digested lunch right above the little girls’ heads. Shrieks of dismay blended with the start of loud, heaving tears. Sylvie’s lips curled into a smile as she leaned back onto the sheet. Would you look at that: the prayer she was asking for.<br />Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-20386019570779697882018-10-28T12:28:00.002-07:002022-09-11T08:03:53.566-07:00Hinge-Toothed ProphetsHe was looking for a friend. I was looking for silence. My eyes stayed low, focused on my hollowing bag of plantain chips. I had gotten the last pack on the plane and the snack trolley had only gone six rows back. Admittedly, they weren't that interesting to study as they dwindled, those salty slivers I knew I shouldn't be indulging in, but I felt his eyes strong on me, neck craned to the left from his windowless window seat in my direction. But I refused to meet his eyes. Doing so would be a non-verbal contract of on-and-off conversation for the better part of three hours and forty minutes. He already told me about some of his whereabouts. "You going to Guyana?" The vessel was packed to the brim with fussy, impatient, slow-bustling, heavy-tongued and sharp-eyed travelers with Jamaican and Guyanese passports, or those who eventually traded them in for matte, navy blue USA booklets. From the look of me, I would be exiting the plane in Kingston, just like from the look of him, I knew he was Georgetown-bound. "No, Kingston," I said, a slight graze of patios trailing off my lips.<br />
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"Oh," he smiled back, revealing an endearingly tilted front tooth. Friendly Man With The Hinged Tooth And The Eager Eyes was an uncle, although I do not know if for the first, second time or otherwise. I did not ask for clarity either, but his sister was preparing to give birth and wanted him present for the baby shower. Where there was mostly joy, I could sense his irritation at the additional five hours of flight time he had ahead of him, after the grumpy aunts and uncles made their ways to May Pen or Halfway Tree or Portmore or Pembroke Hall once set free from Norman Manley in the middle of the day. "It's nighttime me reach," he continued. The rest of his explanation—something about complications with her traveling to him in New York—drowned out somewhere between the whir of the plane engine outside and the see-sawing of his thick accent.
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Eventually, though, one has to bend to warmth and good nature. The craning continued until I saw him reach down into his carryon from the corner of my eye and pull out a jumbo Ziploc bag—the kind mom uses to store her pre-seasoned chicken, fish and pork in the freezer—full of miniature sized candies. I saw his open hand extending towards me, with packets of Skittles and Swedish Fish resting in the middle. He smiled, and as I took them, so did I.</div><div> <br />I'm still learning to receive love in all its many forms, especially when I can't readily recognize it. It took sweets handing underneath my nose to melt the tough exterior I've built up around myself. Not because of protection or anything (I'm nobody's brokenhearted girl), but for focus. I'm too focused, so tuned in on avoiding commotion and planning "what's next" that I sometimes miss the innocent splendors of now. Like the kind person looking to exchange positive energy that will ultimately enrich me, not distract me. I've been living the most unproductive, distraction-free life. All of my life's edges and and folds are neatly tucked, not to be moved. Why? As a Piscean, I am extremely adaptable to others, but not to my own stubborn ways and my ideas of what I should be doing (or should have been doing) to ensure success finds me, but what have I done to ensure that happiness finds me just as easily? </div>
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I swear, I've got to be passing by happiness like I do hagglers on the street, blocked out by self-imposed blinders. I'd now like to argue that the case for pursuing your dreams like a horse with blinders is a phony premise. Who knows how many interesting detours I've missed in my 28 years that probably have fields of fresh air and flowers that don't make me sneeze, and idyllic views from altitudes bound to prompt moments of clarity? All I've kept focused on is the succession of cobblestones beneath my feet, stretching for unseen miles in front of me. I don't really know if they turn, dip, stretch into stagnation, who knows. All I know is that "this is my path."
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I think I'd like to get lost on a different one. It'll probably be more challenging, but it's got to be more fun and, eventually, more rewarding, right? And these are not paths I wish to sprint on. I'd fancy a nice stroll. You know, take the scenic route. Make some pit stops. Have some snacks. Meet some people along the way, much like my friend here two seats over—still craning his head quietly as I scribble in this notepad—has done.
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-3582136260707289302018-07-11T18:31:00.001-07:002022-09-11T08:04:55.299-07:00Must I Remember?I keep seeing the ghosts of things I've wanted but could never have. I think I have a knack for preparing people for their next best things. Or, at least it always feels that way. And since this is clearly the era of seeing, remembering--frequently, at that--even when you don't want to, I suffer. Memories real and hypothetical wring at my insides.<br /> <br /> I saw a Him I wanted once in the train station today. He still looked like the gentleman that I knew him to be. Button down shirt, slim jeans, dress boots. Tall and lanky with the swagger of a Harlem trumpeter. A quirky tangle of locks that had nearly doubled in length since we were last in each other's midst. Engaged. Invisibly, of course. You can't tell on the outside--the She was not there--but I know. Thanks to the joy and unwanted charity of social media, and that we remained "friends" on one the most visual platforms of our generation, I see constant proof that the flame I'd hoped for three or so years ago wasn't strong enough to burn. Maybe only I convinced myself it even existed.
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We haven't really spoken since the gradual fade out--his days delayed responses to my texts cemented the inevitable. Just a "like" or two on Instagram from him to me. We have no reason to talk. I talked all could back then, tried to be forward, put myself out there. Drop every hint in the good book. He was sweet, charming, good hearted, and frustratingly oblivious. Every proverbial wink and wave went over his head. Or maybe he just chose to close his eyes. I thought we had something by how much fun we had when we hung out, how we danced, how sweetly he checked in on me, but evidently that was that imaginative mind of mine doing its thing again.
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I see him, all these years later, in the heat of underground rush hour, he still does not see me. I don't want him to. I don't want to small talk. I don't want to talk about him finally getting that dream job he'd been chasing, or if he still lives in the same Harlem apartment he offered to pay for the cab from to get me safely back to Queens. I don't want to have to congratulate him on his engagement. I don't want to remember my own loneliness. Or maybe, once again, his eyes are "closed," and he's sparing me.
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<a name='more'></a>Of course he'd get off the same stop as me. Hopefully not buying groceries from Trader Joe's like I am. <br /><br /> I make a mental effort to look down and lose him as I scurry through the turnstiles and up the stairs. Allow all six plus feet of him to disappear from my line of sight. I am unsuccessful. Even out on the street, I try to lose myself in the mess of confused people and he goes his own way. I am unsuccessful at first, but I keep my head straight forward until I'm standing in the market's vegetable aisle. I turn around and he is gone. I exhale, embarrassed at my relief.
<br /> <br /> I am happy for his happiness deep down, as I am happy and hopeful for every human's fullness of the heart. I just wrestle with the reality that mine always seems to draw the shortest stick.
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-30446149887329440852018-05-13T13:51:00.001-07:002022-09-11T08:06:18.607-07:00Whose Life Is This?<div>my life doesn't feel like my own. <br /><br />it's a funny thing to wake up in the morning, feel around in the darkness with my fingertips, trying to find orientation from the safety of my bed, walk over to the mirror, flick on the lights and see nothing. not literally of course. there i stand, looking back at myself, wiping the crust from my eye corners and staring down a shell. a big ball of empty housed by a brown body prepped for a daily routine of busywork, and a wandering mind, brimming with problems both real and imagined, blocking a purpose.</div><div> <br /><i>what am i doing? why am i doing this? </i>wordlessly, the refrain haunts me as i fight morning fatigue, standing soapy under running warm water, fixing eggs and tea, slipping on one shoe then the other, setting foot outside, already looking forward to when that same foot will step back inside the house at the end of the day, and my bed's call will be answered. repeat.</div><div><br /></div>
i am 28. i am 28 and lost. i am 28 and lost and living like I have to be tethered to something solid, definite. like i should have this thing figured out. this life thing, to where it doesn't feel like i'm simply clocking in and clocking out. i am alive, technically, but existing sounds more true. my organs are working soundly enough. so are my limbs. so why isn't my mind? why isn't my heart? i'm coasting without an inkling of a love for anything, really. and coming from a girl who once had so much warmth within her, love for the simplest things, an imagination that ran wild, it's a scary contrast.<div> <br />i am a woman who plans aggressively. it is something that satiates me. order comforts me. measurable foresight reassures me. but day by day, i'm learning that routine is truly the worst thing for me. it is kryptonite. days pass emptily because they are all anticipated, filled with nothing i truly look forward to but that i "have" to do to stay on a logical, straight and narrow path. to just get what needs to get done, done. i fight it and fight it and fight it, sometimes to the point of professional demise. it is a misery i cannot articulate, that i have not yet figured how to escape. no one gets it. why mess a "good" thing up? <br /> <br />on the outside, nothing is broken. "if it ain't broke, don't fix it," they say. things look good. in working order. 1+1=2. cool things happen from time to time. but inside, i am screaming and no one can hear me. it's my fault, though; i am my own muzzle. i understand the optics. despite the visceral torment of stagnancy, i am walking in circles and everyone is saying good job. symmetry looks amazing from the outside, right? but i just want to run and color and laugh and love and dream and fly and explore the depths of myself and never look back to that circuitous cage i call my current life. i want to find a way to sustain that, but it's 2018 and it's hard. impractical, illogical. certain to lead to more sad before happy shows up at all, tardy as fcuk to the party. but ripping away from all that is sound and right is becoming more and more of a necessity. a step closer to mental salvation.
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<a name='more'></a>i want not to be applauded for mediocrity, but applauded for curiosity, creativity, vision. dishing out soul food. walking in my truth. living like Matthew 5:14-16.<br /><br />i want to be left breathless from thrill and risk, unlike the sideline-bound spectator that i am. <br /> <br />i want to live where there is green in abundance and the softness of soil and sand, not the concrete gray that greets me day in and day out, matching the hardness of those who walk alongside me, lost too. unable to change things. or unwilling. or unsure.<br />
<br />i want the freedom to get lost in my own mind, and obey whatever urges to write, paint, photograph, create in any way, come to me without restrictions of time or space or occupation. <br /> <br />i want to drown in joy, almost. be so overwhelmed that this happiness is mine and mine alone, and that i can share it if i want to.</div><div>
<br />i want to feel the burn in my palms from the fire in my eyes as i approach each day, ready to embrace the stories—both my own and those bestowed upon me by strangers—tucked away in each one. behind my low lids are unpolished stones, cold and fixed and uninspired. what will it take to finally open them? see who i am as who i can be, <i>will</i> be. <br /> <br />i need things to tell my children, if i have them. true experiences. i want the life i'm living to be the stuff of lore. to be full, to be real, and to be mine. Mine. <i>Mine</i>.
</div>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-53301369938195323332017-10-28T18:57:00.002-07:002022-09-11T08:07:56.296-07:00Getting Past “Should”In 2017, I sat in the pews of three churches or the rows of fancy reception halls watching two people in love become one union. And for the weddings I didn’t attend, I saw enough of the ceremony on social media to make me feel like I was there, dodging the thrown bouquet per usual. I always wonder if their special day came close to (or exceeded) what they drummed up in their dreams prior to.<br /> <br /> Culturally, we joke and say that from youth, us women, prayerful brides-to-be, spend years planning for their weddings, regardless of if the husband part of the equation has been factored in yet. We know the style and cut of engagement rings, possible surprise engagement scenarios, the type of dress and hair, locations and venues, months, seasons, guest lists, table decor, honeymoons, you name it. And it’s a fun and wonderful thing to imagine. I love to chime in to the building of this fantasy as, through age, we inch towards their realities.<br /><br />All my life I’ve wanted to become a best friend turned wife, a mother, a life partner, someone else’s complete family. However, I’ve avoided letting even a fragment of a wedding ceremony for myself materialize in my mind. In casual conversation, I’ve crossed out the option of me wearing a strapless dress simply because my breasts are big and gravity is real, and that I couldn’t have a spring wedding because my allergies are horrendous, but my thoughts haven’t drifted much beyond that. I have no mental picture of myself in a white gown, no clue what my hair would be doing, no color schemes, no clue of the reception activities or if I’ll do customized vows or who would be doe-eyed in the audience dabbing away tears for me.<br />
<br />I don’t necessarily see myself as superstitious, but I do have a gut fear of karma and jinxing things. While I do believe in <i>The Secret</i> and that thoughts become things, I fear that if I conjure up something prematurely, I’ll put bad luck in the air and ruin whatever’s meant to be. But the older I get, the more world I see, and the more life I experience, I wonder if the snapshot of a married me is MIA not because I’m scared I’ll jinx it, but because it doesn’t actually exist. Maybe that aversion to envisioning my big day is a subconscious way of not getting my hopes up too high to be crushed. That maybe I don’t see myself as a bride because there’s a very real chance I’ll never be one.<br /><br />
<a name='more'></a>In any moment prior to this one right now of me writing this epiphany, my heart would have sank into the floor, mushed around beneath my feet. Existing as a perpetual third wheel. Me, <i>alone</i>. Dying <i>alone</i>. <i>Nobody’s</i>. The thought goes against everything I assumed and hoped for myself. That, quite frankly, is expected of me. Ever since she’s been of age to share her experiences, my sister hasn’t had any shortage of doting boyfriends. It’s innocent and fine, none of them seemed too toxic; she is just a relationship type of girl. I thought I was the relationship type, too. I swear I did. But a decade of life showing me otherwise has got to mean something.<br /><br />For the last couple of years, I’ve felt so fcuking lonely I was embarrassed for myself. Sometimes I still am. I wonder what’s wrong with me often. No one will tell me what’s wrong with me. What am I doing wrong? Am I doing anything right? How can I change me? How do I pull myself out of this mild depression, this swallowing feeling of self-pity? (Therapy would probably help, so that’s going to be my treat to myself next year for sure.) But what if this is preparation for me? It sounds crazy and cynical, but as sucky as it feels now, maybe God is getting me used to being alone so that I can handle it for the many years of life I pray I’ll live? Maybe I’m supposed to be my own “Person.” <br />
<br />When I was watching Insecure this season, there was one episode that really hit home for me. Like Gabrielle Union’s character in <i>Being Mary Jane</i>, <i>Insecure</i>’s Molly (played excellently by Yvonne Orji) is one of my favorite poppin-but-embattled characters. Professionally, she’s great, and that’s about as far as it goes. Finding a romantic match is just as important, but that ground is more than a bit shaky. Molly’s therapist picked up on a pattern of hers during sessions: she kept saying she “should” be this way based on X, or “should” have that in her life because of Y. She told Molly, based on all these “should be” ways she sees her life unfolding, could she be satisfied if her life went a different way than she intended? If she didn’t get more money and respect at work, and if she didn’t find love and marriage, could it be possible to still find value in the life she was living?<br />
<br />It’s a very difficult thing to try to see your life outside the lines of what you expected it to be and wished all your life it’d wind up as. The person who hears a cancer diagnosis didn’t plan for that to be there. The single person with a child or children didn’t plan to parent alone. The person with a disability didn’t intend on having one. The person who lost both their parents at a young age wasn’t prepared for that to happen. But these people find joy and hope and value in their lives still. It may suck sometimes, but it’s possible. It’s doable.<br />
<br />I know it’s “too early” in my life to worry about being alone forever, but it’s a real thing to prepare for, especially for someone as emotionally shaky as myself. There are so many amazing, successful, intelligent, caring, maternal, wonderful women who, for whatever reasons beyond their control, do not find love even if they want to. Yet they still go on living, doing things that add up to something they can be proud of and happy with if their lives were to end right then and there. Could I do that? It’s worth my while to make peace with the possibility, barring bitterness all the way, because I know that at my age, the weddings aren’t going to stop. The proposals aren’t going to stop. The pregnancies aren’t going to stop. Happiness and love aren’t going to stop, and I feel privileged to receive invitations to witness these celebrations in the flesh. I want to give 100% of my joy to my friends and family on their special days regardless of if I ever have one. God, can you help me do that? Can you help me be okay?Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-69999710444833541162017-03-26T12:05:00.000-07:002017-03-26T12:05:27.846-07:00Learning How Breathe: Turning 27 in Cuba<div class="p1">
<i>This is not a typical trip review with do's and don'ts, but a inward reflection and the sights and sounds of my trip. Glimpses of recommended places to go are bolded throughout.</i></div>
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I haven't sat in a rocking chair in years. Or not in recent memory, at least. The thought of rocking chairs is paired with ages high in numbers, the bodies of whom are rich in wisdom and memoirs hidden behind tired, wrinkled eyes. Vaudeville films flashing of a life wholly lived. That, and inner peace. Tranquility. Satisfaction with the way things are and a sound peace of mind. The swaying forward and backward moving to the natural metronome of the heartbeat. Back, forth, back, forth. The rhythm is just so. No missteps until it is time to get up.</div>
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My time in Cuba has treated me well, offering me that stillness I couldn't achieve prior. That content and ease. Betty [of <b><a href="https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/16027501" target="_blank">Chez Betty</a></b>] and Abuela ("Alla," as Betty would call down the hallway at any given time) and mama have opened their place of solace and refuge to Crystal and I—and Alla's rocking chair—and allowed me to taste the tastes and smell the smells of Havana life without all the fluff. In my head, I could get around alone if I wanted to. Find a way to may my way through town with 10 CUP instead of the 10 CUC reserved for tourists, more than 50 times the price. Flexing the Spanish I thought was terrible but turned out to be not too shabby all along. </div>
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It all started last Tuesday, Saint Valentin's, the day for love I used to love myself enough to treat myself to a birthday trip. Coasting along an island highway in a kiwi candy green 1953 Dodge Kingsway, watching the school children on midday break saunter down roadsides in their mustard skirts and high white socks to match their starched shirts. Or mischievously toss crumpled paper at passing cabs out the side of packed bus windows. Hand after hand of every sort outstretched, flagging down shared cabbies that are no more than 1 CUC a head. There can't be enough cars for all those hands. Adele's "Fire to the Rain" and Whitney Houston's "I Have Nothing" play on the radio in fusion with local tunes as we quietly choke on the exhaust fumes of Cuba's infamous old cars and work trucks beating us on the road. Our taxi driver, Ivan, was everything I had envisioned a Cuban man to be. Classically built, with a lean figure, strong but chivalrous face, salt and pepper hair and never without dress pants or a dress shirt tucked in and dress shoes. Unlike Betty, who accompanied him to pick us up at the airport, the English in his vocabulary was sparse, but his warmth and attentive demeanor spoke clearly enough. </div>
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It was Ivan who, the very next day—after we filled out bellies with Alla's tomato egg scramble, arepas, fresh tropical fruit, juice, strong coffee and Cuban ham and cheese sandwiches for breakfast—would be the one entrusted in taking us two hours away to the beaches of <b>Varadero</b>. During our adventure, we passed by the U.S. Embassy (which reopened in 2015 after shuttering in 1961), Hotel Nacional de Cuba (an option we didn't even consider) and fishermen hoisting their lines off the side of <b>El Malecón</b>, Havana's Union Square-esque hang out spot, at 9 a.m. We passed beautifully crumbling buildings with Fidel Castro posters stuck and woven between the window bars. We took stabs at conversation as we went, alternating between Ivan's fragmented English, our broken, tense-deficient Spanish and the Google Translate app I downloaded for the trip. Ivan, being the gentleman that he was, made sure he got water for us at the rest stops with his own money, even though he gave us a discount day rate for the trip (we paid it forward and back in our tip, though). </div>
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The day treated us to white sands, crystal waters, random conversation with an old Canadian man who didn't like Trump, iPhone Boomerangs, lifeguard chair impromptu Photoshoots and a treat at the overlook point at the border of Matanzas at <b>Puente de Bacunayagua</b>. That was the only super planned day, aside from making time to go given tourist sites like the <b>Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes de la Habana</b>, <b>Museo de la Revolución</b> and <b>Cámara Oscuro</b>. We also took an Afro-Cuban religion tour, which schooled us on the nitty gritty of Santería on <b>Callejon de Hammel</b> and Havana's local art scene. </div>
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The other days, we took upon ourselves to be become one with not only Havana, but its people. Strolling along in Havana while black brought about its own attention. Kisses and whistles from men dark and darker are as abundant as the cobblestones snaking through the skinny streets housing majestic buildings with crumbling facades. Ladies in spandex pants, flip flops and hair casually pulled back stop and reach out their hands to admire my dresses and waist-length twists for themselves before becoming the umpteenth person to tell me about the rumba festival happening "right now" around the corner. "Luego," I say before escaping the crowded maze that is Habana Viejo. Meeting Yanai as we shopped for cheap keychains and magnets that accidentally broke while Crystal shopped. </div>
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Elvis, as he led us to our favorite paladar of the trip, with the rum-sopped lobster and live music with the young white couple obviously, and endearingly, drunk in love. </div>
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Finding fellow New Yorkers in Drew and his lady friend while sipping on <i>excellent</i> daiquiris at <b>El Floridita</b>. (Fun fact: He also low-key saved me from being hit by a parking taxi.)</div>
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Nurse Ana, who immediately saw the Jamaican in me and stopped whatever she was doing to help us get CUP from a barber shop and hail a local shared cab ("Please, don't speak," she'd told us once we were tucked in the car and she told the driver where we were going in Spanish). </div>
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My Howard University friends Bryant and Chad as we passed the <b>Capitolio</b> in search of tickets to a sold out show at the <b>Cuban National Ballet</b> (we got them). </div>
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Alexander from Santiago de Cuba, who was an author in the book festival—his was called <i>Nombres de las Estrellas</i>—as we left <b>Revolution Square</b>. </div>
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Most memorably Reinaldo, our papa for the day, literally cried when talking about all the good President Obama (still my president) has done for them over lunch. His wife ("the love of my life") called while walking the more deserted streets in search of cigars and he showed us a picture of his hija. He has family in New Yersey, he'd said. </div>
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One night we got literal hamburgers (ham was the base meat; I took one bite and threw it away) and fries "to go" in a supermarket white shopping bag (just everything tossed in the bag, LOL), where the handsome, blue-eyed server—yes, a suited server at a mall hamburger joint—blushed and shifted when we assured him how good his English was. To ward off hunger that night, we chomped on the sugary yellow galletas while chatting with Betty at the dining room table well into the night. </div>
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Although attempting to turn up at <b>Sarao</b> on a Thursday night was a bust, our other two nights out in Vedado were nights to remember. At the Cuban Art Factory (<b>Fábrica de Arte</b>), fine art mixed with turn up harmoniously. For one night, despite her temporary kidney illness, Betty went out with us for a night on the town. We got out there late, which I was trying to avoid because I heard the line became the stuff of nightmares, but just a few heads up in the line, Betty's college friends were trying to make a move of their own. The three of us finessed our way to them in the line. Then Jesús, her more- fabulous-than-life hairdresser friend (and self-declared wife of Beyonce) knew of a friend of a friend who worked there. One by one, our new group of seven skipped the line of hundreds and got scooted in in a hurried, clusterfcuk New York fashion. Inside, I bonded with her journalism friends, some of whom had amazing English and others of whom knew very little, but all of whom held me in such high regard when they found out I was from New York. Their eyes would widen and they'd quickly fetch their neighboring friend and, in Spanish, tell them I was "a periodista… de New Jork." Always with the dramatic pause. The reactions were hilarious, embarrassing and humbling. "We suck," the busty one and the sassy man with the pashmina would joke. </div>
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The very next night, our last night to savor the nightlife, we returned to Vedado at the recommendation of the radio journalist with the malo inglés. <b>King Bar</b>, which when pronounced right alluded to the slang Spanish phrase for doing the do, was such a win. Admission was 7 CUC, but that covered your drinks at the bar. You only needed two. The caipirinha I had came in such a big glass that it took me nearly an hour to finish it, and I barely wanted another drink for the night even though I had 4 CUC left on my credit. But Crys and our new gay dance besties insisted I honor the birthday eve turn up. At 11:59, the club randomly started playing happy birthday, purely by coincidence, and I shimmied and shook with William (Billy) and José before hauling myself to the bar for a daiquiri. I assumed this cutesy frozen drink would be a light one, but I was wrong, as my stomach would tell me a few moments later when I met Malssimo and his Italian friends while catching a breather outside. I lasted for about 20 more minutes before I needed to go make that tried and true walk home in the dark along the main avenue. </div>
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Just when I thought the trip couldn't get any more random, my actual birthday proved me wrong. We started the day with lunch at <b>La Guarida</b>, a fancy, Beyonce-visited paladar that we simply couldn't get dinner reservations for (Betty had called on our behalf to see if they had any slots for the 19th, to which they asked, "For what month?" We couldn't get reservations for Obama's spot <b>San Cristóbal</b> or <b>Dona Eutimia</b> either). It was delightful anyhow. My lobster and saucy rice medley was so delicious, even though the portions were petite and perfectly Instagrammable. After fine dining, as all those who've visited La Guarida before us, we explored the premises, taking pictures by the famed linens and the same steps where Rihanna posed for <i>Vanity Fair</i>. The space, with it's own destructed charm, was breathtaking with such excellent light pouring into the room. Heaven for a sun baby like me. </div>
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Next up was the <b>Cuban National Ballet at Alicia Alonso Theater</b>, where we saw a lovely performance of "Giselle." As a former dancer and a fan of the art form, it was so interesting to see the differences between a performance in Havana, where the attitude is to comfortably make due with what you have, and maybe one in the United States, which would likely be more ornate. We take the little resources we have back at home for granted, and only notice things like stage soundproofing and shock absorbers in their absence. Crystal and I almost left the theater during intermission because we had no idea if the performance was over or not when we saw everyone get up from their seats. We didn't have a program because it cost to buy them and we were on our last leg of cash. In the vestibule, the doors were closed and everyone milled about, grabbing drinks. A kind samaritan gave me his program, and we combed through the all-Spanish booklet to find the 15 minute intermission notice. </div>
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At the conclusion of the play, we meandered around Old Havana's buzzing main square to kill time, settling down in the lobby of <b>Hotel Parque Central</b> to make use of the Wi-Fi and kill all the minutes left on our internet cards (our first time trying to use them and purchase them along <b>Calle 23</b> was such a fail). As I FaceTimed my parents and sister to tell them about my birthday excursions, three white men walked up to us ready to charm. Timothée, Ben and Sam—two French men and a Dutch man based in Hong Kong—had just landed and were looking for recommendations to party in Havana. King Bar, I immediately suggested, still feeling woozy from the night prior. "So let's go now?" Timothée said more than he asked, reaching his hand towards mine to help me up. I laughed out loud. With a morning flight, there was no way I was going to go out for another night of partying and drinking. Plus, I had to pack. In turn, everyone laughed off my reasons. Even Crystal. "Live a little" was the consensus. However, it was only 7 p.m., and King Bar didn't liven up until at least 10 p.m. Their easy fix? Some drinks at the hotel bar, their treat. We made our way to the bar to have rum shots (we were going to have tequila but felt it was most appropriate to have Havana "Ron," Cuba's word for rum) and mojitos. Finishing the drinks was such a struggle, especially for our three new friends. The jet lag was weighing on them heavy. They were pilots for Cathay Pacific Airways, we eventually learned, on their month long annual vacation. Havana was just one stop of many. I had no idea there were such young pilots out there. Anyway, we finished our drinks, annoyed the bartender and surrounding patrons with a birthday serenade for me, and I continued dodging plans to go to King Bar because of how tired I was. Tim was shooting his shot, and it was cute, I won't lie. I'd never had a white guy court me that way, but after some time we eventually bid our friends adieu and went our separate ways. I wonder if they ever made it to the bar…</div>
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All in all, as Crys and I sat in our first class seats on the way back home (hey, treat yourself every now and then), all we could do was laugh and think about how this trip was one for the books. There were so many experiences I forgot to write down, and so many places we simply didn't have the time to see in our short six days. Cuba, we'll be back. </div>
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Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-58370084052232337322016-12-27T00:45:00.003-08:002022-09-11T08:16:15.207-07:00Lies, Lessons and Self-Love: Getting To The Real Of ItLying is really easy, disgustingly so at times. But even more than it is a fleeting trick, lying is unhealthy. Especially if you're lying to yourself at the same frequency that you're misleading others with the things you say and the way you behave. So, I'm going to be honest with myself for a change. <br /> <br /> <br /> My eternal quest is to not just find happiness, but to find it exclusively within myself. You should see all the self-love quotes that decorate all 12 of my journals and occupy the back of my door in Post-It form. My living space literally looks like a scene out of <i>Being Mary Jane</i>. I know that in order to attract love in my life, I must be totally okay and in love with myself first. But honestly, <i>honestly</i>, a huge factor in my self-love quest is my body and loving that. It's... okay. I don't hate it. It could be much worse, but I don't love it. It's functional and, as far as I know, has gotten the technical thumbs up from my doctors, but I don't love it. I have the full activity of my limbs and have no desires to surgically enhance my body (with the exception of a breast reduction if I wasn't so scared I won't be able to breastfeed when motherhood comes knocking). But "love" is not something that comes to mind when I consult my mirror. I'm not blind to my flaws yet. They're right there in neon lights that only I can see. I'm still struggling to take me as I am.<div> <br />
Unfortunately, the body I envision fashionably and try to dress up and shop for is not reflected back to me. My boobs are the lone victims of gravity (and unnecessary attention) in my friend circles, so no strapless garments and braless days for me ever. No nipple can be freed, sorry. There was no turning back from the dreaded Freshman 15, even four years plus post-graduation. I know when and where my second chin shows up, but I can't seem to master that hiding angle—you know, the one I've previously nailed in selfies—in public or in any other photo not taken by my elevated hand. There are back rolls that did not exist a few years ago, and the persistent skinny-fat fupa always interrupts how my jeans fit at the buckle. I'm tall and lean-looking, meaning curveless except for my chest. No sensual or even mildly switchable hips. No shapely, stallion runner thighs. No tight, naturally cinched waist over here. No phatty, no bubble butt, no nada. A capital P, basically. My feet are big and forever ruined from just a handful of years of tap class (damnit!), so I have to be real selective with sandals. RIP to whatever smooth and spotless skin I had before the stress of 2016 hit me like a billion bricks. I'm still trying to overcome some body hyper-pigmentation and scarring issues. I have this stupid bump on my thumb that came from sucking it up until I got braces in fourth grade. The only things I said I loved about my physical self this year were, oddly enough, my quirky bowed legs—I'm so happy that I didn't notice that they were significantly different from other peoples' legs until right before college, no exaggerations here—and my hair. And I still have my insecurities about certain hair things that I cloak very, very well. Hairstyles I still haven't tried out, and probably won't, because of it.
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It doesn't matter how much my friends sense my funk and try to rope me out of it with a compliment or a scold session or how much I hear, "you're beautiful the way you are," it all means nothing if I don't agree. If I don't believe it for myself. If I'm not at least 90% in love (or hell, at least comfortable) with everything I am bare naked. When you feel good about yourself inside and out, it projects way beyond you. A confident, feel good attitude is like the Midas touch. I feel like I've been maneuvering with fool's gold for quite some time, and I want the real thing now. I know that I personally can't get there until I love this shell that my spirit is in and honor it the way that I should.</div><div> <br />
So... I pray that this will be a year of increased process and habit development to send me on my way to a body I can be fiercely proud of. For <i>me</i>. I want to feel sexy and bold and unafraid and unstoppable. I want to witness my body at its absolute best. I want to walk up a flight of stairs without heaving and checking my pulse directly afterwards. I want my hair to swing on hoes. I want to say <i>yassssss</i> each and every time I look in the mirror, whether I'm done up, dressed down, still wet from the shower or fresh out of bed with unbrushed teeth, my headtie still on and a hole in my sock for no reason at all other than the fact that I'm happy to be in the skin I'm in. I want that old glow back. And I'm excited to build up the necessary practices to get there, versus just wishing I'd magically morph into [insert Instagram boutique model with luxurious Indique bundles here] overnight.</div><div> <br />
So with all that out my system, here's to wellness and self-love in all it's many forms, starting with how I treat my "temple." Hopefully these guidelines slash notes-to-self help keep me on track for at least the first half of 2017. And friends, strangers, whoever, feel free to hold me accountable! I'll appreciate it more than you know:
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<div><b>-No more sweets and salts, babygirl.</b> Just don't have it. <u>Okay:</u> Multigrain Wheat Thins, Welch's Fruit Snacks, Calorie Oreos, Fruits. <u>Not Okay:</u> Cheez Its, Cookies, Chocolates, Gushers, and everything else.</div><div><br /><div>
<b>-You don't need to drink to have fun.</b> Those drinks add to fupas and a false sense of enjoyment. Hiding behind a buzz versus re-finding that pleasant personality. Red wine is cool on rare social occasions because you're a grown up so put the Moscato down and act like it.</div><div><br />
<b>-Buy yourself a motivational water bottle</b>/jug and drink at least one of those per day. Or, get through three Poland Spring bottles. Infuse them sometimes.</div><div><br />
<b>-Working out is your friend,</b> because you want abs, a flat stomach, an actual thigh + ass combo and evidence of upper body strength. Grab a pal, or not, and stay active.</div><div><br />
<b>-Let's try out a just seafood + veg-based diet.</b> This will require additional income to afford this, so get to pitching.</div><div><br />
<b>-Make meal prep your friend during the workweek.</b> Remember, seafood + vegan, so figure it out quick. The more money you save, the more salmon you can afford.</div><div><br />
<b>-Lemon juice, not orange juice, for smoothies.</b> Because, sugar intake and the desire to abolish acne. Keep adding ginger and tumeric.</div><div> <br />
<b>-Yeah, so about that bread...</b> Only every other month, k? #wraplife
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<b>-Eat to not-be-hungry, not to be stuffed</b> or just because it tastes good. Stop when you are no longer hungry. Drink a glass of water before to fill you up.
<br /> <br /><br /> <br /> You can do it, self! Be your own cheerleader!
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</div>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-11513053611330562412016-09-21T08:43:00.001-07:002022-09-11T08:13:13.878-07:00Basking In Blackness In Bahia With Travel Noire<div class="MsoNormal">
After the first flight and first layover, I was less anxious
and annoyed than I had planned to be. In fact, I was smiling. Subtly, of
course. I expected to feel alone, lost, vulnerable, but sitting on that plane
from Panama City to Sao Paulo, I was everything but. New York spoiled me, yes,
but whether I thought it did or not, it prepared me to look at myself as a
global citizen. Sitting on the train and walking down crowded city streets in
different boroughs, it’s uncommon to only hear one tongue spoken in passing.
There will be conversations that you technically can’t understand or jump into,
but you feel it. </div>
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Foreign sentences don’t feel foreign, so sitting in this aisle
seat hearing a black man speak in Portuguese—a language my ear was never
trained for—to a white Brazilian after being told “Gracias” by an ethnically
ambiguous fellow while in Panama’s airport felt like magic. I don’t feel lost
even though I don’t fully know what they’re saying; I feel enamored. Inspired.
Just because I’m a part of this right now by osmosis. Part of cultured roots
and lilty tongues. To witness that gradual transition from gate to gangway was
unlike what I’d imagined it to be; it was better. <o:p></o:p><br />
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I’d never heard of a “Brazilian winter” before. When you
think of winter, you think of New York at its most unforgiving. Or Canada.
Crisp white lawns and slushy brown streets. The hurt of numb, red fingertips
and constant reminders that the socks you bought aren’t quite thick enough. Scarves,
fuzzy hats, mittens with removable thumbs for struggle texting. Frosted breath
and hot cocoa and fire escapes and days off school and work. Not Brazil. Not
Salvador da Bahia with its roosters that crow at six in the morning and two
thirty in the afternoon without ceasing. With its sudden, heavy rains that wane
out into scattering, cool mist twenty minutes after starting. With its hot, hot
suns and the relieving shade from wide green palms and extending branches. From
the infinite stream of flip-flops slapping and pitter-pattering across uneven,
uphill cobblestone. With its moquecas and caipirinhas eaten and sipped
plentifully on the airy edges of patios, blending with the tune of American
laughter and smoky Portuguese lilts in the kitchen. With its clumped up houses
with clothes lines extending out of open doorways, gridiron windows and snaking
roads out front. This is not a wintertime I could’ve imagined (nor is it one I
wish to leave), yet here I sit on my private balcony passing over sweet memories
made as the time passes before my capoeira class.<br />
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These past three days have
felt like plenty more, and the friends I’ve made within them have felt like
long lost family. That’s black people for you. That’s the main reason I was so
adamant about test driving a Travel Noire Experiences trip for myself. There’s
something so magical about the binding feeling that comes with color. Good ol’
melanin. Browns, beiges, butters and blacks. Even straight out of the gate at
the airport they found me, lost-looking and confused and tired and delirious
looking for a TN’s taxi driver holding a teeny, tiny sign. I scanned the
airport rich with a language I simply couldn’t navigate at the moment and came
across a cluster of black people with my eyes. I had a feeling they were my
group but I kept to myself to avoid mislabeling and embarrassment on my part.
They spotted me spotting them, and with disarming smiles and a crooked finger,
beckoned me over to them, confirming my correct association. From there, all
discomforts were gone.<br />
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When I was trying a pitiful first attempt at samba
during our welcoming dinner across from a seasoned musician with a body more
nimble than mine, all discomforts were gone. When I was sweating out half my
body weight at a joint Samba and Afro-Brazilian dance class, the discomforts
were gone. When Genny rubbed Marquita’s bug spray over my arms and back for me
because my vanilla extract was fading and I’d already been bitten thrice, the
discomforts were gone. When I, a Spades newbie, lost terribly to some hooting
and hollering pros, all discomforts were gone. As we chatted over meals about
race, identity, colorism, careers, dating, self-love, self-worth and self-care,
discomforts went out the window. Never before have I traveled with such an
immediate sense of sureness, openness and instant familiarity. And in a city
boomingly black at that? It’s safe to say I lucked out.</div>
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I’m four days post-Bahia and while I’m thinking about how I
can’t believe it’s over, my mind is also saying I can’t believe I was even
there. It’s crazy to be back in the hustle and frazzled flow of New York again
when less than a week ago, we were staggering up those cobblestones like we
owned them and nursing sore muscles after each and every trek. Spitting salt
water out of our mouths as we bathed in warm beach waters. Memorizing a triad
of steps, rhythms and a handful of duck-and-kick commands for capoeira. Napping
on the cushions of a private boat as we hopped from islands off the coast of
Bahia. Feeling warm fingers knead the knots of pre-existing stress out of our
backs during much-needed body massages. Lazing away in woven hammocks as our
browning hues glistened under the orange sun.<br />
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Making friends with the witty and
insightful front desk attendants at our hotel, even though we’d been
competitively shouting and shrieking in the lobby at all hours of the night
playing Heads Up. Splintering odd into small fireside chat clusters, opening up
the not so sunny cracks and crevices of our souls to people whom, at this
point, were not longer strangers. Depression, renewal, emptiness,
encouragement, need for change, all hashed out to reached renewed
understandings of ourselves and each other. Watching the rounded sun sink out
of the sky to kiss the rolling waves on the horizon, and all who lay along the
sandy shoreline stop to applaud and marvel at the sight, showing gratitude to
the powers that be for letting them see, live, experience another day. And
there I was, grateful, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Grateful to be amongst these beautiful human beings from all
walks of life. Grateful to have had them show me another side of myself. To
letting themselves be my artistic muse. Grateful for these new, even if only
for a moment, big brothers and big sisters (at 26, I was one of the youngest on
the trip) to encourage and uplift me even though they’d just met me. Grateful
to challenge myself with disconnecting and digging deeper as we learned about
our temporary home, how Bahia got blanketed in black when those slave ships
docked and how the awful things they experienced at the hands of the pale and
the foreign is a mirror image to America. How we, the brown, are full of life
and legacy no matter where we are planted.<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was not compensated
for this post in any way, the trip just genuinely made me feel things and write
them down. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-42141661981391509672016-07-16T11:06:00.001-07:002022-09-11T08:16:52.685-07:00Blackness Is A PoetryContrary to the current state of the nation and how it tries to tell our story—when "all lives" desperately try to smudge out our melanin like a bad eraser wasting space on a No. 2 pencil, but we go no where—I love my blackness more than anything.<br />
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I love the way we have the strength not only to pray, hard and unyielding, but to forgive even when it doesn't feel deserved. When it <i>isn't</i> deserved, point blank period.<br />
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I love how we sound when joined together in song, whether organized or by impulse, the natural harmonies that arise and the feelings that permeate from those choral moments onto any ears nearby.<br />
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I love how dramatic we are, how we tell stories and our eyes wrinkle and out brows furrow, and the way our hands move when retelling even the simplest of anecdotes. Bodies swaying with narration.<br />
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I love our sweetness, our sass, our sarcasm, our wit, our sharp tongues, our sympathy.<br />
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I love our skin and how it glistens and glows, not burns and reddens, in the sun. How tints and hues of the darker human spectrum vary slightly, but the sameness is the only color we see. The only one that matters.<br />
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I love how our laughs are big and deep, wide and loud, with all of our teeth on display. Diastemata abound, indicative of the wide range of experiences we've endured as a result of where we all come from. Where we were born, bred and multiplied fruitfully, seeds of deeply rooted culture sown and reaped on our own land. Where we were uprooted, relocated, then forced to adapt and thrive.<br />
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I love the way our hair, course, coiled or kinked and without effort stretches up to the heavens like the coveted crowns that they indeed are.<br />
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And painfully enough, I love my blackness more than white America will allow me to. More that what they feel is safe, permissible, able to control and monitor. Marveling from the outside, while elbowing and stealing to get inside. To dissect and understand something that is ours and ours alone. Itching to sip from our well to quench their thirst for culture, spice, flavor, resilience, Godliness, MAGIC, not caring how, when or if it is replenished. Itching to get a taste of the cane sugar that is blackness, pure and unrefined. A flavor not theirs to grasp.<br />
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My blackness is too sweet for you. Too diverse and complex for you. Too potent for you. My blackness, a priceless treasure bestowed upon me from my Father, is a beautiful sonnet not designed for skimming. Not to be read and digested unless you really<i> get it</i>. And trust me, if you're not in it, <i>of</i> it, chances are you'll never get it. Sorry, not sorry.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKtg9C9hyOxye9eAlXBRZFOljTeNlzeMA9b3GuA7ayjMXxIy6zRbDdrECrKZ1RVldNiwwop4J0vjXMnLNVImnQ5yeHE4CFHjJav5vuD13jKOIs1i1dJMLT1bn_kwyTNuKXbfqxTOQtLV0/s1600/eeIMG_2581.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKtg9C9hyOxye9eAlXBRZFOljTeNlzeMA9b3GuA7ayjMXxIy6zRbDdrECrKZ1RVldNiwwop4J0vjXMnLNVImnQ5yeHE4CFHjJav5vuD13jKOIs1i1dJMLT1bn_kwyTNuKXbfqxTOQtLV0/s640/eeIMG_2581.jpg" width="469" /></a></div>
<br />Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-46025284163625065682016-07-14T15:27:00.004-07:002016-07-14T15:29:31.220-07:00Chance The Rapper Is In The Business Of Saving Souls<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">For those who are sad, Chance the Rapper's music is the antidote.</span></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTISdesiGYkz-qpCQmBG-SsaxsYSiTeH83NIoJMMWYYFnLlPI5PLV8jn1hEhcDqtShhBY1pKm-wTFstM7lzt0TXGWmrV7yx-ZuOZYIWkLHWmS9hJsMrkaWKHwrqLIUVEZRYe2amb1S8RLl/s1600/static1.squarespace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTISdesiGYkz-qpCQmBG-SsaxsYSiTeH83NIoJMMWYYFnLlPI5PLV8jn1hEhcDqtShhBY1pKm-wTFstM7lzt0TXGWmrV7yx-ZuOZYIWkLHWmS9hJsMrkaWKHwrqLIUVEZRYe2amb1S8RLl/s1600/static1.squarespace.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I did not watch the ESPYs last night with the rest of the world (namely with Black Twitter). On one part, I don't have cable because I'm cheap, so there's that. But really, instead I was busy being sad. Sulking over personal trivialities that feel like mountains underneath the magnifying glass that comes with living in the swallowing oasis that is New York City. I went to sleep moody and woke up with an annoyance that set it off again. But what I was sad about isn't as important as what pulled me out of it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My terrible digital-based-job-having-self habit is waking up, rolling out of bed and into the glow of my iPhone screen, scanning through both work and personal inboxes, texts and social feeds to see what I missed in those hours I was seeing black. As I scrolled past Carmelo Anthony and friends standing in solidarity for the Black Lives Matter movement, Devon Still posing with his cancer-free daughter and new wife, and the Currys and Wilsons bonding over marital bliss, I landed on a link nestled on top of a picture of Chance the Rapper's signature "3" cap and a neatly fitting tux. "Chance The Rapper Honors Muhammad Ali with an Original Song." Instant click. I knew it was going to be something I needed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My relationship with Chano's music as a healing mechanism stems back to <i>Surf</i>, the Social Experiment album starring Chance. Every time I'd hear "Sunday Candy"—which played in repetitions of at least three times—had struck me straight through the heart like an arrow and stayed with me afterwords. The churchiness of it, feeling like I was sitting in the same pew as the Bennetts on a Sunday morning, sandwiched between Chance and his late grandma, famous for her storied peppermints, fancy hats and cocoa butter kisses. The organs, pans, horns and voices of Jamila Woods and the choir ricocheting off each other, in a crescendo of celebration of family and the Lord, sweet as candy. It was ridiculous how much I played the damn thing to brighten my mood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then along came <i>Coloring Book</i>, the <i>Acid Rap</i> follow-up we all thirsted for. It took me a long time to finally hear the damn thing because I don't have Apple Music (remember: cheap), it hadn't hit Spotify (I have the free version, still cheap) and it wasn't available for purchase or download in the Apple Store like <i>Surf</i> was. But the internet has a way of coming through for the kid, and I found out he planted the tape on random download sites for us to find. Bless you, Chance, because the "Blessings" reprise at the end of the album was the answer to it all. Let me just say right now that the entire tape was a spiritual journey, but it came to a peak at the final "Blessings" (the first one is a sweet little ditty assisted by Jamila Woods again). The first time I played it, the tears snuck up and fell from from my eyes without warning. I simply could not stop. <i>Are you ready for your blessing? Are you ready for your miracle?</i> Chance, Ty Dolla Sign, Raury, Anderson .Paak, BJ the Chicago Kid, Nico and more were all asking me a question I couldn't answer beyond a blubbering "yes." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Something inside jerked at the inquiry and worked up all my emotions as if I were sitting in a sanctuary. I've always been a proud Christian, at church every Sunday next to mom and my little sister, but I can't say I was an active participant. Not until college, at least, when I figured out my relationship with God for myself. I never got the whole shouting, fainting, sprinting-around-the-sanctuary-when-the-pastor's-sermon-climaxed thing. Growing up in a tame Caribbean Methodist church where we sing from the hymnal 95 percent of the time and fellowship with Jamaican bites and tea the second service ends, the hooplah I saw on TV and in other churches felt too theatrical for me. When I went to college, hearing the Howard University Gospel Choir, attending non-denominational Chapel and dancing on Beacon Liturgical Dance group opened my eyes to youth in worship and worship through music. I was freaked out at first watching people experience the Holy Ghost, but it was there I began to cry in church and feel things internally that I couldn't explain. And didn't try to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since moving back to NY, the only time I feel those feels is when I listen to music in my room, the same moving songs I danced to and teared up to. And now Chance the Rapper, a young churchy millennial whose faith in and love for God I can personally relate to. "Blessings" pulled me back to that space, as well as "Finish Line/Drown" and "How Great." Now enter his celebration of Muhammad Ali's life on last night's ESPYs where he pulled another soul-stirrer from beneath his permanently affixed cap with a song we'll call "I Was A Rock" for now, the song's refrain. His notes, crisp, clean, honest and holy, struck me deep in my heart again, lifting me out of the dark space I woke up in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Even as I wrote this post to the tune of the performance (which has looped over 10 times by now, shout out to the auto play feature), I smile and reflect on things I can't identify, all to the rapper's improving singing voice. It genuinely sounds as good as it feels, and for that I'm thankful. I'm thankful for a kid of this generation making music that can help save the spirits of the same generation. Add some brightness to somber moments. And ultimately, give glory to the one who made it all possible. I needed this.</span></div>
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Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-73396984383803561892016-07-08T20:06:00.000-07:002016-07-08T20:06:46.945-07:00A Short Story I Wish I'd Finished<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;">Maybe one day I will...</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I'm truly not a fan of nature. The last two weeks have confirmed this to me. The itch and sting of swelling bites and blisters on my skin have confirmed this to me. The crack of dawn chorus of distressed howler monkeys, plummeting coconuts on my thatched roof and the roar of jungle rain each and every morning have confirmed this. Yet here I am surrounded by trees on all sides in a bungalow without air conditioning and flimsy mosquito nets feeling my skin become oily with sweat and humidity, sticking to the pillows of this bed, and Ted isn't even here. He's the whole reason I flew down here to Puerto Viejo. "Sam, let's take a different kind of vacation, you and me. Less party, more peaceful." <i>We don't need a trip, we need a counselor</i>, I'd thought at the time, but instead I nodded wearily and headed back to the bedroom to await details on the trip he just KNEW I'd love, because there's no "no" for Ted. And of course, I hate it here.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">We've been here for five days already, and Ted's been out on the town for four of them, filling his soon to be beer belly with fish tacos and cervesas at Salsa Brava. Coming back smelling like salty ocean and "outside." My nana used that term often for us when we were little and used to visit her in Kingston. Scrunching up her nose as we sat on her good sofa (you know, the plastic covered one). "Get off my couch smelling like outside!" she'd say. She would've hated Ted if she lived long enough to meet him. He carried that smell with him always. Sweat and stink of 85 degrees but not quite enough deodorant. When he hops in bed with me, I pretend to be asleep. He snuggles under the sheets —without showering, a habit I wish would die a slow and painful death—and kisses my nose sweetly as if he loves me. I hold my breath in increments for as long as I can, then once I hear his breath slow down, I flip over as if struck by a fit of jitters mid sleep, haphazardly as if experiencing a bad dream. And I exhale.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">I wish I believed that I still loved him. I'm not sure if he realizes that in my heart of hearts, I don't. Sometimes he could be painfully oblivious to things. Like the drawn out way I packed my suitcase to come here, disinterested, throwing random pieces into the bag. A red shirt here, striped tank there, some camo shorts, a white boho skirt, winter socks, a dusty pair of Chucks. No order. I usually pack my bags according to daily activities and a planned itinerary, cross referencing Accuweather forecasts for the week with the right article of clothing, the fit, the style. Makeup for dolled up nights. Multiple swimsuits for lazy days on the beach. Not this trip. There was no spark in my eyes, and Ted didn't so much bat an eyelash at my sluggishness and disinterest. So unaware. Or perhaps he simply doesn't care. Didn't know about my habits from the get go. As far as he knows, all of the tickets were bought and he'd fulfilled his "good boyfriend" quota. Jewelry every major holiday. Check. Just enough sex so that he doesn't seem needy. Check. Whisk girl away on tropical trip. Check.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">Ted doesn't know me and doesn't want to admit it. He just knows that we look good together. It's not an untruth. I agree. We do. On paper, in pictures, in theory. The entrepreneurial son of a lawyer and investment banker with top graduate honors from the prestigious Westbrook Uni meets the writer daughter of two accomplished fine artists in a bookstore near her alma mater Hartsbrew, one of the nation's top black colleges. Beautiful and brown and successful, match made in social heaven. Two years later, the beauty of our union is fading and I'm the only one who acts like I can see it.</span></span>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-60942008692519523652015-12-30T22:14:00.000-08:002015-12-30T22:14:17.219-08:00I Have Nothing To Say About 2015 But Thank You For Showing Me Who I Can Be<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">What A Time.</span></b></div>
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It's the first of the last 24 hours before I have to change the calendar on my wall. There's a hole in the left underarm of my sleep shirt and my sweatpants are borrowed from my sister, who's fast asleep across the home. Even though I have a cozy Brooklyn abode of my own, I'm in my <i>home</i> home with my nuclear family, in my big bed swaddled in linty, overly fuzzy blankets, thinking about how wild of a ride 2015 was. And I am smiling. A lot.<br />
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The last time I even checked into this blog was damn near eight months ago. Absurdity. I thank God that I was so busy living that I hardly had the time to reflect outside of Twitter and inconsistent pen-to-paper diary entries. Living as in doubting, believing, struggling, seeing, crying, flying, moving, doing, being, succeeding. I've experienced every emotion and every sensation there was to be had, which is an amazing feeling.<br />
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At the top of it all, I am grateful for life. To be aboveground. Breathing, unassisted. Unscarred and unscathed. America and the world at large has been some sh*t when it comes to the humanity, especially when it comes to cowardly law enforcement and trigger-happy translucents snatching the lives out of brown bodies left and right. I say a prayer for Sandra Bland, Tamir Rice, Mike Brown, the Charleston 9, Freddie Gray, Laquan McDonald, Samuel DuBose, Eric Garner and the many more who aren't as privileged as I am to witness the ushering in of a new year.<br />
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And then a say a prayer of thankfulness to God for taking me places I never expected to go. For reasons I can't exactly explain, I'm extremely hard on myself. I'm not sure if I've always been this way, but ever since college, I'm much more aware of how I behave (towards myself). I'm never satisfied with what I'm doing currently, because it can always be better. I see <i>better</i> all around me, and I can always spot where I'm falling short, even if others don't see it. I realize my missteps and I hate them. I'm hyper critical of my projects and impatient with my progress. I want control of my process so badly and I easily slip into a funk when things don't come out in the grand and "perfect" way I want them to, and I beat myself up inside. I don't celebrate anything because I never feel like where I am is worthy of celebration. I have <i>so. much. more.</i> to do to be "great." And I want to be "great" more than anything. Not even for anyone, just for me. I have some internal things to work out with confidence and all that jazz, so my work ethic is all I have and I'm very protective of it.<br />
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But during a staff retreat earlier this month, my boss Datwon—I'll come back to this—said something at the end of our pow wow that stuck to me: "Yes, we have improvements to make, but let's celebrate the successes we have had. We have to celebrate the little wins." I fussed and fussed so much inside that I didn't stop to smell the roses until people pointed out the size of my bouquet.<br />
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I've been to five countries—Mexico, Costa Rica, England, Spain and the Bahamas—five states and on 22 flights (with a flight fear!) since the top of the year.<br />
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I was stranded in one of these countries by myself with an active volcano for a few days and made it through just fine.<br />
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In mid-2014, I can remember standing at the elevator with my co-worker, Mikey—who's been flown all over the country and beyond to cover major music events—telling him that I wanted to be so much like him. And he said, just wait on it. It'll be there quicker than you know it. In the warm months of 2015 alone, I've six music festivals I never thought I'd ever attend.<br />
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Oh yeah, and after spending two and a half years interning & permalancing for a brand I love, I joined them full-time in April.<br />
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I moved out of my parents house and into my own place in Brooklyn.<br />
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I had my second ever public art show.<br />
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I met a friend who showed me how to be unafraid and confident and free, and then gained him as an angel.<br />
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I wrote some features that tested my limits as a writer and strengthened my pen.<br />
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Even though I gained some weight =(, I started going to the gym more and understanding my body better.<br />
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I worked hard as bloody hell, sacrificing sleep and going out time to make sure that a package I cared deeply about came into fruition in some way.<br />
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I've had people I've never met before (and people that I have and are near and dear to my heart) tell me I inspire them. <i>Me</i>, who constantly seeks inspiration to get through things I saw as failures, inspiring someone else. That's insane.<br />
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It's too exhausting to sit here and think of resolutions and things like that, but there are a few things I want to start implementing in my overall lifestyle. Stuff that I basically started a week ago because I couldn't wait and shouldn't have to. I have to love myself more. Enjoy the flavors of life more. And in doing that, that means I have to make more time for me. Find a work/life balance. Respect my personal time. Allow myself to feel worthy of a break. Of self-praise. Of a recharge. Of a pat on the back. Of attention. Of compliments (without deflecting them). Of some sexy time (like, being girly and not being so ashamed of my body and just own it and flaunt it and not care what people think or say). Of thinking I'm awesome as fcuk without backtracking and second guessing it, just letting it radiate outwards instead of being modest/humble to a fault. Basic stuff that seems like a given but I was too busy trying to impress myself to allow it.<br />
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I don't really know if I met the "goals" I set for myself in 2014, and I can't find the diary entry where I listed them all. But I would change <b>nothing</b> about 2015. Not the people. Not the experiences. Not the fears. Not the triumphs. Not the failures. Because the sum of it all was worth it. I'm happy with what I accomplished this year, and I can't wait for the new year to show me even further the woman I can (and will) become.<br />
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Cheers.<br />
<br />Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-50558678360637011052015-04-29T19:50:00.000-07:002015-04-29T19:52:07.431-07:00Scattered Thoughts And Things While Alone On The Coast Of Costa Rica<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Hopefully the title explains this well enough. I just wrote as I went, so take it as it is.</i><br />
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Pure backpackers boarded my second plane. They all had overwhelming duffles and cumbersome knapsacks, thermoses hanging off of dusty Jansports and those heavy duty athletic sandals good for hiking and climbing over rocks. They were tan, not the beach kind of tan, red and leathery, but a healthy brown (for white) like they spent most of their time outside in parks and on nature trails. I would imagine that they smelled like earth. They had laid back buns and pony tails and white corn rows and boho skirts and billowing harem pants and guitars to strum around bonfires and those colorful hipster string necklaces you grab from a small country's local markets. All smiling and chattering down the length of the aircraft. "I like your hair," one said to me as she slowly passed my coarse twists.</div>
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These flights have been superb lately. Super smooth with very little jitters on my end. Is it just that these are better pilots? Windless days? Maturity? Or just that I've been so booked with travel that my psyche has no chance but to calm down and boss up. And the ambience of all this solo travel has been nice too. For a long time, I couldn't even fathom tackling an airport all by lonesome. No one's shoulder to bury my eyes into during takeoff and turbulence. No one to occupy my attention at the gates pre zone 4 boarding. Hell, no one to be accountable for or to be accountable for me at the destination. It's cool though. Alarmingly, I don't feel nervous right now. Mexico was a good prep and the strangers I've been interacting with make me feel at ease. The sweet Asian girl sitting next to me—I could pick up her positive energy from the get go—just randomly offered me a stick of Juicy Fruit. We haven't actually spoken the entire flight and I literally hate Juicy Fruit, but I accepted and now I'm chewing this insanely large wad of gum, waiting for the flavor to fade out. I can't help it, I'm a sucker for random acts of kindness. I didn't want to kill the moment.</div>
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<b>I am seriously winging it</b> at this point. I'm on hour two of a five-hour local bus ride to Puerto Viejo de Talamanca, winding through lush green foliage on foggy mountain tops. My ears keep popping and my skin feels sticky. I'm so tired and hot that I can barely keep my eyes open to take it all in. It's suddenly raining down outside and my umbrella is in my suitcase. Oh, and my suitcase is somewhere lost in the San Jose airport by now. It never made it to the baggage claim area and I had to leave without it to catch this bus. There's only one every two or so hours.</div>
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I wake up a little bit later, and the greens around me are thick. I'm driving into the jungle basically. This is going to be an interesting two weeks of solitude. Outside doesn't even look like it even rained. We just stopped at a rest stop in Limon. Hopefully this empanadas will hold me over until I get settled in. Oh yea, and 'til I get my luggage. (Post empanada: it was quite delicious). Back on the hot, damp bus we all pile on, onward to Puerto Viejo.</div>
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In an earlier blog post, I remember desiring a life were I didn't feel so safe and unchallenged. Wanting a little more discomfort. Welp, I certainly got it. My current predicament is certainly uncomfortable. It's 7:20 am the day after arriving in San Jose then bussing it five hours to Puerto Viejo. My first hotel photo shoot is scheduled for 9 a.m. at another hotel somewhere in the area. I have still not received my bags. Meaning, on the smaller side of things, I have no change of clothes. I managed to sorta shower and have mint gum and travel wipes, but my obvious necessities (toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, perfume) are in that suitcase. Also in the rass suitcase... my flash and the attachment I need to do panorama shoots at said 9 a.m. hotel. My current hotel told me yesterday that at 6:30 a.m. they'd send my bags to this hotel (which I'm checking out of before said 9 a.m. shoot). I went to the front desk at 6 a.m. wistfully to see if it was there, only to find the "lobby" shack shuttered, lights off with a man outside of it charging his phone. I have no idea if he worked there or not, but he asked what I needed. "When do they open?" <i>A ocho.</i> Freaking great. And there's no phone in the room to call the airport myself. The airport that's five hours away, that is. I'm going to go down and indulge in their breakfast, which very well may be the only silver lining here, and pray for the best.</div>
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Although the breakfast was good, prayer didn't work here. My stuff isn't here and the front desk guy said they may deliver it tonight or tomorrow morning, the same thing they said last night. I'm pretty sure I'm going to smell awful by then.</div>
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<b>It's been several days</b> from my over dramatically hellish voyage from San Jose to Puerto Viejo, and honestly I almost forgot the anxiety I felt then. It's hard not to be at ease here. The vibe is just unlike what I've experienced before. No one gives a fragment of a fcuk, and in the best way possible. A lazy way to describe this small town is hippie/backpacker/surfer/rasta/reggae with some Latina undertones. Just undertones, as in the language spoken here is Spanish. Everything else is that out of some sort of TV heaven. There are white dreads, black dreads and Hispanic dreads. Ankle charms and chancletas. Bikinis on bicycles. Taxis are average Joe folk with a knack for conversation. At every resort and hotel I've stayed in, I totally forgot I was a solo traveler. I don't feel lonely at all, which is bizarre as I don't know what. Jason, Oscar, Harry, Allen from L.A., some German lady, this German man with long hair, Jerald, the pregnant Irish couple from dinner, Joe? And his partner from Toronto-slash-Minnesota, Jorge. All of these characters have made me feel less and less of a stranger during my stay here. Friendly and chatty and easing me out of my shell. Sometimes I have Wi-Fi but I've found that I don't really need it. I mean, to do work yeah, but I'm not anxious and all that. </div>
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What a necessary change in pace this trip was.</div>
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<i>All photos by me.</i></div>
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-82997995324121469092015-03-20T17:31:00.000-07:002015-03-20T17:31:30.925-07:00Travel Diary: If You're Wondering How My Contiki Mexico Trip Went…<div class="p1">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>It's warmer than I expected up here.</b> And calmer. The sun is strong on my arm through the slit of my window seat, magnified as it rises high over the Earth I'm not touching. Just two hours ago, I was freezing, my pores raised high on my even skin and my hairs standing straight. One degree outside, I believed, but I came outside dressed for 65 so that when 77 hit me in the face, it'd be a smoother transition. There's no one sitting in between me and Ms. Matilda. Okay, I'm more than positive that isn't this older woman's name, but her stature is sweet and her nature warm, like a Matilda. When I first climbed into 18A and she in seat C, she turned to me with a smile (and I returned a half one as I was greedily slurping meh-seasoned chicken soup from a plastic spoon), saying, "Now, is that as delicious as it looks and smells?" "Not really," I replied with a laugh, before she insisted it must be better than the hardboiled egg she had for breakfast. Such a Matilda. Anyway, we're sharing the middle tray tabs in our row to house our juice, tea and coffee. My belly is unexpectedly full. I forgot that some airlines still serve "complimentary" meals for long, international flights, so it feels like AeroMexico is spoiling me a little bit. As an added bonus to the birthday treats. You know, in addition to just up and buying a solo ticket to Mexico to hopefully make friends with a scattered origin tour group. Some people are coming on this trip from Korea, Australia, New Zealand and other parts of the U.S., and the nerves aren't quite hitting me now, but I'm sure once I touch down, the mariposas will begin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah well, I've got some hours. In the meanwhile, the white down blanket of clouds is soothing me, soft, straight and constant as if they go on to infinity. Forever and ever and…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hold on just a damn minute. We're about an hour outside of landing when the concession stand rolls by with peanuts and beverages. "White wine?" Hell yes I will have a free glass of white wine (and a cup of water)! Matilda, pleasantly surprised herself, glances over at me with a smirk one might find in Sin City and holds out her hand to receive her glass of wine. "When in Mexico…," she begins before raising her glass over the seat to cheers with her engaged daughter in the row behind us. <i>Yes, cheers to Mexico</i>, I toast in my head before taking a sip. AeroMexico has won my heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I've spend less that 24 hours with these strangers</b> and I already know I need to do another Contiki before the year's over. Especially solo. After taking in the sights on my taxi ride to the Zona Rosa Hotel, I learned that I'm the only American out of 20-something travelers besides my LA roommate, Suzanne. What are the odds that she'd be in my room? And she's a Pisces at that. (Cancun is going to be a movie due to all the Pisces on the trip celebrating birthdays). Other than that, this luxury tour bus is full of Aussies and Kiwis. There are a couple from Tasmania, one from Korea and one Canadian, who has her professional camera out and about like me. I don't know more than 10 peoples' names so far, but it's easy to feel like friends here. They nearly convinced me to boss up and eat a grilled cricket, but as soon as it hit my tongue I freaked out and spit it out. I'm proud of myself for getting that far. Ish, our tour guide, held out a bag full of them in my face and I swear I nearly screamed. Good times. I'm starting to feel the local Mexican coffee hit me now. It was super strong but so good. Brewed with sugar and cinnamon? America, get on it. And the chocolate filled churro I had? Heaven. Anyway, we're driving to the pyramids of Teotihuacan right now, passing through the parched grass of what looks like the country side. Lots of torched earth and space on one side, rubbly short houses on the other.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>"New York?" I looked around pointlessly</b> before faux-sheepishly heading to the front of the bus. "Hi, guys," I said before being greeted AA style. "My name is Stacy-Ann or Stacy, whatever you want. My birthday was yesterday, I love tequila and I don't have any terribly embarrassing stories…yet." The rest of the group calls me my actual name, but for the tour guide, "New York" will do. Or "Brown Sugar," by the locals. Or Rastafarian, as one Mexican obsidian craftsman called me while professing his love and massaging my back with a smooth stone from his glittery gift shop. Most of my "mates" were persuaded enough by his straight-from-the-plant tequila shots to buy his pricey trinkets. Looking was cool for me. I'm trying this thing where I don't spend extra money on things I don't need. I know I'm on vacation, but a crystal mask just isn't ideal to be dragging around from city to city. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By now, a number of my tour members have had a bit of sickness, from food poisoning to heavy corn intake to liquor over indulgence. I pray I'm not next, but in honestly these are experienced travelers who are on anywhere from month two to month seven of traveling a long way from home. Do Americans really not travel at all? Our way of life is so different. For some of my friends, trekking to Vegas, Miami or Puerto Rico is a big deal. That's a mess. No passports necessary. Bit I think these are baby steps. My tired limbs tell me that there's so much more exploring I need to do until I feel like a real world citizen instead of just a proud New York placeholder. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>My body temperature has finally reached a normal level.</b> When the plane left Mexico City and landed in the flatland of Merida, the humidity hit me smack in the face. The thin material of my thrifted shirt is clinging to the small of my back and I'm scanning the floor so as not to trip over my maxi skirt. Our coach this time is a bit less luxurious, but somehow I know this small colonial city is about to be a rich gem. Each block inching out from the small city square outside our hotel seems like it's singing to me. The busy back and forth of bodies loud and in the foreground, melodious in their continuous movement. The easygoing Sunday vibe softly hums its melody. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Unlike our sandwiching cities on this trip, there's no touristy, youthful nightlife. No bumper to bumper traffic with cabs full of partiers like Mexico City. No lined up shots of Tequila like in Cancun. Just a refreshing ease of moments, unhurried and organic. Engaged sales versus hassling knickknack peddlers. Quality guacamole and satisfying tacos. Mexican patriotism surrounding the flag pole, with tiny tots holding their arms to their chests in the position of allegiance just like their parents. Market shops with pastries, white ensembles stitched with traditional embroidery. Street dancers with skill I've not even seen in New York City. Horse and carriage rides down ghostly empty streets that still seem safe and past mansions of the city's wealthy past. Bashful Mexican boys so enthralled with my twists that one came up to me asking for permission to feel a chunky strand. (I obliged). Innocent and curious. There's something extremely comforting about a stranger. There's always a fear, yes, but there's an honesty about them that's so beautiful. A helpfulness. Sometimes it's easier to confess your fears and the contents of your mind to a stranger. There are no regrets there. No time for it. Only discussions. Solutions. Stories. I think I need to meet more strangers… </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Ever been able to pinpoint a moment your life changed?</b> It might've been the point of impact when the water smacked hard against my skin before swallowing me whole. Dangling in darkness of 130 ft. before my life jacket hoisted me up to oxygen again. Eyes flooded, nose filled with fresh water, applause echoing off the stone walls all around me. Smiles, cheers, high fives and aqua hugs. Seconds prior, I was staring down the belly of the sinkhole from the edge of a mini cliff. Carolynne stood next to me ready to be my partner in jumping to ease my nerves, patiently waiting for me to tap into my moment of release (trust me, it took a minute). My 20-something tour mates treaded water below, heads all up to me, waiting for me to join them after a leap of faith. "Don't worry, you can do it Stacy! You've got this!" The support slowly started to iron out my jitters. I couldn't live with turning around and walking back down the stairs in shame. Embarrassment. Fear. Defeat. What ifs. Why nots. Contiki's whole shtick is "no regrets." "Jump!" I heard them call to me. So I did, suspended in time before joining the black catfish of Ik Kil below. I had no regrets at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>A trip isn't a trip without a few battle scars, right?</b> That's the more optimistic approach to nursing the two bleeding spots on my left knee. I usually carry first aid gear in my purse just because, but today I left the bandaids in the side pocket of my suitcase. A stretched out chunk pulled from a giant cotton ball would have to do. I applied pressure on the are as I hobbled back to my corner spot of the catamaran. The waves rose and swelled around our tiny vessel filled with girls lathered in tanning oil that probably wasn't biodegradable, my two new friends hunched over fighting their sea sickness and losing, and the endless rounds of alcohol being circulated by the sail staff. Our physical ailments were the lesser of two evils, though. For me, at least. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rewind a few moments to when I had to act without thinking too long about it. I'd already paid the $75. I already signed the waiver. I already had the life jacket around my chest. The flippers were already tucked under one arm while the other shoved the goggles snuggly over my eyes. "Hurry! Come now! Jump off the boat now!" There was no easing into anything today. Of course I was supposed to be nervous, but I literally didn't have enough time to be. Plus, the denote revelation was the perfect primer. I didn't know if the water was cold beforehand, but before I could assess it or prep my skin, I was in it, silently yelping because I couldn't figure out how to stop breathing through my nose and only use the snorkel. I grabbed onto the rope extending from the boat and out into the sea with the rest of the snorkelers. I was panicking quietly, determined to man up and get my bearings together without causing a scene. Everyone else zipped away so easily, all expert swimmers because of growing up in cities on the sea. Me, not so much (and no, don't you dare count New York. Who actually <i>swims</i> in that?). I can swim in a pool, but up until that moment, I'd never touched open sea water. Deep water. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As much as I was trying to calm myself and regulate my breathing, the captain, Victor, could sense my struggle. "Puedes nadar?" he called out to me. "Si, un poquito." "Come here!" he instructed, pointing to the floating life ring he was holding to personally guide the non Michael Phelps'. I hopped over the guide rope, not caring who I might have kicked with my flipper, and latched onto him. That was one less thing to focus on, so my body calmed a bit, allowing me to learn to breathe slowly into my mouth and ignore my nose. How much easier that was now! I dipped my face into the water slowly, hesitantly, not sure if I was doing it right, if I secured the mask tightly enough around my face. I did, and I saw about 20 fish flock to right beneath my bellow, nipping at the papery food Victor was releasing right beneath the life ring. Fear left me and I was filled with awe. It was so beautiful and peaceful beneath the surface. Fish dodged in and out around the coral affixed to the ocean floor. On the other side of my face, I could still hear the Latin music blasting from our boat, Saka Boy Too. For a moment, it felt like I was in two worlds. So amazing and non-terrifying (you know, after all the breathing hoopla). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When it was time to leave Nemo and friends and return to Saka Boy, the boat's ladder was harder to grip than I thought. The wind had picked up a bit and the waves were strong. Gripping the ladder with one hand and removing my flippers while still in the water at the same time was one hell of a challenge. I kept falling off, and by then, Victor had already left me. I finally got my grip and pulled the flippers off, but as I hoisted my legs onto the ladder (note: I have zero upper body strength and this story serves as inspiration to put in that gym time), one strong wave knocked my balance and my thigh banged hard against the bottom of the ladder leg. I knew it was cut as I climbed up and felt the sting and watched the red run down my leg. It was all worth it though. I was all smiles for the rest of the day. When I laid out on the deck with my swimsuit like models on hip hop video yachts. When we stopped on Isla Mujeres and my two licensed friends voted me to break out of my shell and drive them around the four mile wise island in a golf cart alongside local traffic. When we took the catamaran to another island for lunch. When we braved the choppier afternoon water on the way back to kilometer 6 of the Cancun strip, being violently splashed (read: drenched) in sea water for the entire 30 minute commute. When we went out for our last night of fun before the rest of the group went on to Belize, and we partied until 3 in the morning with endless confetti showers, raining balloons, lip sync Broadway shows and dancing on top of the bar. When Latin dancing with a boy from Chile with so-so English and realizing that my Spanish is actually a lot better than what I thought it was. We were able to have a broken English, broken Spanish conversation and have a great time and talk.</span></div>
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">As I wait in the lobby of Cancun's Holiday Inn Arenas</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> for my airport shuttle to arrive, I'm happy I can say I'm returning home a slightly different me. I truly do feel like a world citizen with friends in several different countries and continents and with plenty reasons to visit them all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I needed every second of this trip. The door is wide open for me. Now all I need to do is walk through it more often.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="http://www.stacyannellis.com/unstrangers-yucatan-mexico" target="_blank">See more photos from my Contiki Yucatan Highlights Tour here.</a></b></span></div>
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Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-77386866885171736922015-02-28T11:40:00.001-08:002015-02-28T11:40:18.671-08:00It Took 25 Days To Discover A #QuarterPieceOfMeThe moment I turned 24, I was already anxious and excited to turn 25. It just seemed like the <i>IT</i> age to be, and not just because 25 is such a perfectly rounded out number (that helps). By looking at my circle of friends and college alumni and other people I look up to, wonderful things seem to happen around that age. Not necessarily riches, fame and marriage, but smaller things that help build to whatever their definition of happiness entails. Progress. Confidence. Freedom. Movement. Thrill. Fluidity. Experimentation. Risk. Comfort. Discomfort. Spontaneity. Newness. All things that I can already feel happening in 2015, and luckily for me, my birthday is at the top of the year.<br />
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So, before I fully jumped into my new quarter century skin, I wanted to take a moments to discover my self more with another challenge: #QuarterPieceOfMe. It's similar to <a href="http://sellisthewriter.blogspot.com/2014/05/so-what-was-30daysofself-you-ask.html" target="_blank">#30DaysOfSELF</a> in that it is a creative self-portrait challenge that I forced myself to stick to daily. But it's different in that the photos were the anchor, yes, for the Instagram series, but not the most important element. For 25 days leading up to my 25th birthday, I shared a little bit of myself with the faces both foreign and familiar of the digital space. What a ride it's been. As much as outsiders have learned about me, I've learned a lot about myself. What I'm conscious of and what I'm not so conscious of. Pretty and ugly. Proud and pitiful. All of it.<br />
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I present to you my personal countdown, #QuarterPieceOfMe, with select favorite photos.<br />
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<i><a href="http://www.stacyannellis.com/quarter-piece-of-me" target="_blank"><b>You can see the entire photo series here.</b></a></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 1 of #25to25:</b> I thought everything would make sense by the time I was 25, but 25 days out from being alive for a quarter century, I see just how mistaken I was. In the prime of adolescence, I swore that by now I'd be some man's wife, some child's mother, somebody's well-established expert. What a detailed daydreamer I was back then! I didn't realize that 25 was in no way designed to be my ending or mid-point. The starting whistle blows now...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 2 of #25to25:</b> My heart and ability to create are the biggest things I have to offer the world. I already acknowledged that, like Sway, I don't have the answers to anything. All I can do is share the colorful questions, thoughts, ideas and other little somethings swirling around my noggin with the world through my visual crafts, simply in hopes that they'll inspire or spark that solution within whoever may see it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 3 of #25to25:</b> I'm easily inspired by others and I absolutely LOVE that about me. Well, most of the time. I'm like a sponge. Chances are that if you've ever spoken to me, passed by me, made eye contact with me, held me, smiled at me, hurt me, actively ignored me, encouraged me or attracted me, I've absorbed some part of it and it manifested itself into something I put out into the atmosphere. I keep it and hold onto the memory. No encounter is isolated or self-contained. I love that energy is transferable like that. It's a thrill because you truly put out what you take in. Keep inspiring me with your lives and see who and what I become because of it.</span><br />
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">#QuarterPieceOfMe, 4 of #25to25:</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It's almost ridiculous how many journals I have. Every year I'm either gifted or buy a new one, and I write in every single one of them. I love them dearly, my babies. I have one on me 90% of the time. There's a book for thoughts and ideas, one for journalism pitches, one for travel, one as a diary, one for regular old to-do list notes, one for sketches, one with encouraging exercises, one with poems. And then there are the ones from my youth that I STILL look back on. There's such a strength and uncanny power in writing. Actually using your hand and ink instead of a keyboard and a screen that can fail at any moment. Tangible magic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 5 of #25to25:</b> Thoughts become things, and if you still don't believe in that, you're a fool in my eyes. I'm often told I think about things too much, which often gets mistaken for worrying. I'm careful of the thoughts I put into the atmosphere, because feel I'm partly responsible for both the positive and negative things that happen in my life. (Hint: read "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne. It is SO real.)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 6</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 6 of #25to25:</b> Getting messy = making progress. Slowly but surely I'm learning to break out of some of my rigid habits and wing things. Get my hands dirty, attempt, fail, then attempt again. Eventually succeed. There's beauty in the process, no matter how uncertain and unpolished it may seem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 7 of #25to25:</b> I'm optimistic about the future and strive to live with nothing but positivity on my heart. Sometimes it can annoy people with how much of a Positive Patricia I can be, but what's the point of looking for the worst in a situation? Keep all that foolish negative energy from around me, I'm allergic. The bad will always be there, nothing to do about that. So be productive and focus your energy into seeing the glass half full (or just enough to get the job done) instead of half empty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 8 of #25to25:</b> I've come to the realization that I'm not "sexy." I'm cute, pretty or motherly to most. And I'm learning to just own that. Like it. See that nothing's wrong with that. For a while, I hated that the first thing people saw in me was my maternal nature or whatever. But then I noticed that trait is what makes me a good friend to my friends, and that's more important to me. Anyway, parts of that sweet natured appeal lends to the charm I'd like to think I have on some :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 9 of #25to25:</b> I'm seriously working on the whole kitchen thing, but not for you, Sir. I may have been born motherly, but not so much with the whole domestic trait. I'm not a fan of slaving over a stove or by an oven (yeah, I certainly can't bake), especially specifically to be someone's "Cater 2 U" reincarnation. But as I get older, I'm making a conscious effort to expand in this area simply because it's one more thing I want to say I've excelled at. Cook on a whim without a recipe handy. Shoot, if The Lord blesses me with a "him," I'd totally swoon if he was excited me to school me in the culinary arena. You know, that corny cooking together sort of thing. I'm a sucker for things like that.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 10</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 10 of #25to25:</b> There aren't enough words in Webster's dictionary to express just how much I love my hair. My kinks, my coils, my naps, my texture, the thickness of it. How it grows wild out my head and does what it wants sometimes, but people still compliment it anyway. Even on "bad hair days." I remember when I would cling to stringy strands of untrimmed hair during youthful permed days. Equating that with normalcy. Beauty. Glad that phase is over. Curls, in general, are ***flawless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 11 of #25to25:</b> I'm all about finding richness in life experiences. Happiness, joy and other emotional quantifiers. Money isn't everything, but it sure would help right about now. Real talk. I can't wait until the day when looking into my bank account doesn't cause me any anxiety.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 12 of #25to25:</b> I long to see the world beyond my coast. Naturally, I'm a curious being. I'm always wondering, imagining what it looks like beyond my doorstep. By the year's end, I hope to feel like a world citizen as opposed to just a New Yorker. Take in the sights and smells. Feel a little lost only to soon find my way. Be the foreigner for once. Be humbled by a lifestyle that I, for most of my life, was just a spectator of. Pimp my passport out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 13 of #25to25:</b> I love mementos and markers of success. Maybe that's a light way to say I'm an emotional hoarder, but that's okay. Shouldn't the things that made you smile the hardest, overcome hurdles, reminisce the most and open your eyes the widest be allowed to be kept? I keep all my press credentials, medals, trophies, every single award since kindergarten, sentimental cards (just a few), friendship notes from junior high, gifts from relationships that didn't work out, love letters, movie and concert tickets, idle doodles. Whatever small piece of the experience I can salvage. That trip down memory lane is all the sweeter when you can hold a specific thing from that memory.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 14</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 14 of #25to25:</b> I believe black is best. Sorry, I'm not sorry. No shade. And yes, for the color, but it's more than that. The state of mind, the confidence, the cultural nuances across the board, but fundamental feeling of deeply rooted family ties. I wear it across my chest with pride. I. Am. Black. And. Damn. Beautiful. True story: I went out to a medical school dinner with my friend, and we were two dark specs in a sea of mostly cream. That was the blackest I've ever felt; my chocolate skin and huge, fluffy fro paired with a short sequined dress, heels and legs for days, Shmoney dancing to the urban songs peppered in between Taylor Swift's greatest hits. The only one that looked the way I did. Danced the way I did. And I loved every bit of it. I was comfortable in my skin and with my "ethnicness." I felt the stares from time to time, as my hair swayed in sync with my hips on the dance floor. It was that of curiosity and admiration. Everybody knows what's up ;)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 15 of #25to25:</b> My family is my core and the reason I smile. They're literally my everything. Lately, I've realized that I'm luckier than most. The news is littered with casualties, missing people, prison sentences, bitter and broken unions, catastrophic mysteries and the whole nine yards. I have friends I know that would give anything to be able to hold their mothers' hands again, to know their fathers better, to not have an obituary of a sibling hanging on their mirrors, to have an elder that can't remember that they helped raise them, to undo the horror of losing their infant after months of preparing for parenthood. I can't imagine the ache in my heart that would come from not having my family with me. I give thanks every single day for them, happy that The Lord saw them into another day. Happy that they're out of harm's way. That if nothing else is going right in our lives, we always have each other to come back to. We don't tell our loved ones how much they mean to us in the present. I'm grateful for how they've shaped my past and can only pray to get more joy being with them long into my future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 16 of #25to25:</b> I'm a Pisces, so my emotions always get the best of me. I try so hard to bury that sensitivity, but to no avail. I love and feel harder than everyone else it seems. I'm a fairly quiet individual, but if you truly know me, you know when I'm buried in my emotions. Overreacting, thinking too hard. I'm working on it, I swear. Little by little.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 17</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 17 of #25to25:</b> I'm terrified of being alone. One of my biggest fears is that I won't find completion or companionship like I've always dreamed about. It's not even always about love and relationships and all that jazz. I'm talking about the little things. Besides someone designated as my forever-friend/husband. I mean people moving on without me. Fading friends because they weren't make to be, or they don't see any importance in me anymore. Busy with an unsatisfying job, but too busy to make time for me. It's clearly not something that should be in the forefront of my mind. And it's not. But on some days, I can't drown the thought. It's a real thing, because I see people suffer from loneliness, and it's nothing I ever want to experience. Ever.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 18 of #25to25:</b> I hate that I can't remember. That I'm a novice. Inexperienced, to say the least. I've been patient--I have no choice--but sooner rather than later, I want to truly experience that four letter word and all the stuff that comes with it. Its quirks. Its lessons. Its feelings. Hairs on the arm standing up. Flutters in the stomach. Heart racing. Staring at the phone waiting for it to ring. Grins that are impossible to wipe off. Cheeks stamped with kisses. Blended families. Blended friends. Seeing no one else in view. Palms longing to be held. Fingers interlocked. Random long stares of admiration. Jokes and laughter. Understanding and problem solving. Compromise. Comfort. Warm embraces. Idle conversation. Deep conversation. An escape from the world. Familiar. A safe haven. Trust and true friendships. Completion and enhancement in the same breath. A human diary. Writing a life story together. Deeper than lust. Love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 19 of #25to25:</b> Everyone has those few insecurities (sometimes hidden and sometimes not) that make them, well, hella insecure. How do you overcome them? Do you hide behind your best quality hoping no one notices anything else? Or do you poke fun at your personal "shortcomings" for kicks to try to lighten the sentiments? Do you try to spin them into a positive? Do you open up to share them and talk it out with a friend? Or do you simply behave as if they do not exist? Like you don't feel the magnifying glass hovering over your "problem areas"? Do you feel bad for holding onto them? Or do embrace that you, too, are a human being subject to flaws and feelings? Questions we have to ask ourselves. Or at least I do, anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 20 of #25to25:</b> When my loved ones are happy, I'm happy. There's just something so transferable about joy, even if it's not coming from within your own heart. When I see my family and friends smile because of a good grade, an internship or job offer of a lifetime, a promotion, the existence of love, witnessing humanity at it's finest, being the reason for one more ounce of positivity in the world, their happiness is as contagious as the common cold. I'm one of those people that gets off on feel-good moments. If I can be a fragment of the reason why one of them is happening, hallelujah.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 21 of #25to25:</b> I've always been a big dreamer ever since I was little. From creating books and pictures for my parents and them treating all my creations like they were larger than life. They set the platform for my aspirations to be sky high. My current hopes and dreams all include papers and pens and prose and portraits. I want to be an author (turned screenwriter), features editor, editorial director or consultant, photographer, practicing artist. That's a lot but I want a lot. Like I've been taught by my extremely supportive family, the sky's the limit, and I'm only looking up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 22 of #25to25:</b> While I was at Howard U, I had the honor of being a part of Beacon Liturgical Dance Ministry, where we used our bodies to be a vessel for His word. It's not something I talk about a lot, but I think about it all the time. How happy I was to have been with a group of women who helped me to become more spiritual. To tap into parts of my heart I didn't know I could reach. To have the willpower to get up at 6am to workout with them and then come to Bible study on top of classes. And to do it with love in my heart. I miss my Beacon sisters and what they've instilled in me. I carry the most important piece of them with me: the scripture that defined our purpose and that I have memorized thanks to them, Matthew 5:14-16 :). "Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven." It is my favorite few lines of the Bible and it guides me not only in the spiritual sense, but in all that I do and I apply myself to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 23 of #25to25:</b> You know what, I'm one of those happy-go-lucky, hippie-on-the-inside, sunshine-and-rainbows, actually-wants-world peace kind of chicks. The second I found out what the word "pacifist" meant, I knew the term accurately defined me. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want anyone to be hurt. I wish suffering was fictional. I wish people only wanted to help each other just for the sake of helping each other. I wish there was no reason to kill. No carnal desire to see bloodshed. No ISIS. No Boko Harem. No damn Stand Your Ground discrepancies. No fear and hatred for the next man. Wishful thinking right? (This post is for yesterday)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 24 of #25to25</b>: As many down moments as I may have (or think I have), life is good. Somewhere in the world, there is someone praying for some sort of completion. I have all 10 fingers and toes. I have clothes on my back, a roof over my head, shoes on my feet and loved ones at my side. My bank account has never actually been/stayed at zero. My parents believe in my career choice. I have a degree from a great school. There are stamps in my passport. I can go out to eat and enjoy happy hour when I want to. I don't have enemies. My edges haven't left me (lol, only on Shondays). I have my days where Murphy's Law reigns supreme and I bitch and moan about it because nobody likes an off day. But at the day, I'm fortunate and blessed and can't be more thankful for my life right now.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 25</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>#QuarterPieceOfMe, 25 of #25to25:</b> Finally, I am 25 years old. Sounds and feels crazy. But most importantly, I am God's canvas and I can't wait to see what he creates with me in my 25th year on Earth. Thanks for joining me on this journey</span></div>
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-54403517096311353452015-01-11T16:23:00.000-08:002015-01-14T20:19:24.266-08:00Humanity In Action Is Thrilling<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Humans are never a bore. An annoyance maybe when it comes to common sense, or a disappointment when it comes to morality, but there's nothing to get you thinking and feeling more than the human race. Sure, teacup-sized animals with pillow soft fur might make you <i>awww</i> a bit and the mysteries and deep open spaces of unexplored nature have you marveling, but the flesh and blood that we brush shoulders with daily, or the funny habits we squint our eyes at when we are privileged enough to catch a quick glance, never cause a dull moment. Especially in New York, where the time gaps in between memorable human encounters is almost as short as our patience being in close quarters with them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This week alone has been full of blog-worthy encounters and non-encounters with the city's quiet inhabitants, and it's been fascinating.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For instance, there was the scruffily dressed, dreadlocked man in line at the Bank of America on 7th Avenue, whose staff know him on a first name basis. As the queue inches forward slowly, he's gabbing on about his admittedly unexpected culinary profession, about the exceptional tequila-soaked chops with a lime finish that I wish he'd detail more for my personal learning benefit. I've learned he's a liquor-based chef preparing to spend some time in Portugal perfecting their cuisine with his cooking styles, and he really wants to stay within the Bank of America family, but up until now, he hasn't found a sister bank. "I specialize in couples dinners," he says to the chubby attendant in the slick gray suit, who, by now, is day dreaming about what he and the Mrs. would like to have for dinner. His wedding band subtly glistening as he idly swings his left hand, moving with every new detail about the apple juice brine he soaked his steak in. "Apple juice isn't acidic," Chef says before asking the stern-faced tellers hiding behind bullet proof glass to crack a smile for him. "So it won't absorb into the meats like lemon or lime will." My friend and I laugh as we exit the toasty lobby into the cold, warmed not only by the building's powerful vents but by this man's bright optimism on a frigid day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then there was the London man beside me who begged me for a "moment of good fortune" or something or other. Asking for help reading the subway directions on his iPhone. He had a cleft lip, a lisp and a charming enthusiasm to talk to the rigid, headphone-wearing New Yorker he just softened for a bit of convo. "You know, it's always great coming heaah because New Yorkers all want to get out, when all Londoners want to do is live heaah." The slant of his accent was comforting and homely, as if I too, was in Queen Elizabeth's land. "I'm on my way to pick up my baby's passport and documents," he volunteered after receiving a friendly but silent smile and nod. "My wife insisted on having our child here in America for citizenship." After a few more words of jolly banter, he left me to the Tink song playing softly into my right ear and allowed my to clog my left with the other earbud. He whipped out an iPad to play a game, but looked up and smiled a genuine goodbye when I got off at Queens Plaza a few stops later to head to work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Another day, a homeless man I was forewarned about from a friend with a sensitive stomach boarded the conductor's car at Sutphin Blvd. His left foot was missing entirely and the right foot was exposed, cut and infected, a continuous victim of subzero wind chills and a lack of medical attention. He weakly wheeled onto the train, hoisting himself thought the doors with a grunt, head low. "I'm so sorry to bother you all," he started. "I'm disabled and I am homeless and I know that's no one's fault but my own." My heart broke, and I wanted so badly to tell him that it wasn't. Pacify the pity in exchange for a smile. "It's just a little too cold out today," he continued, "and all I would like is a hot meal." He clutched his dingy blanket closer to him. I don't believe he had a strong smell, but maybe subconsciously I was holding me breath, a slave to habit and unrealized privilege. As he slowly rolled through the car, as if expecting this to be another dry sweep, a young Desi girl said something softly to him, and he stopped and nodded his head gratefully. She dug into her bag and pulled out two socks, none matching but both warmer than the nonexistent ones he had on. From the other side of the car came an outstretched arm with a piece of pound cake sealed in cellophane. More hands reached out, silently, but with food, change and dollar bills. Mine was one of them. I couldn't see his face as he rolled away, but I could practically feel the slight fulfillment, the joy that for a few moments he was equally as human, receiving aid hand to hand instead of hand to cup. I smiled to myself as brightly but inwardly as I had as I witnessed a girl sit across from a stronger-scented homeless man without moving her seat the other day. It's the little things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On a trip home from Long Island City, I marveled as a white—more-than-likely-millenial—man at Court Square assembled a wooden coat rack right there on the platform, screws and all, while waiting for the local train, just so he wouldn't have to carry the box home. Quickest hands I've seen operate in the cold without instructions, no less.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lastly, for the first time ever, I stood in the cold to listen to the same kind of Jehovah's Witnesses we scurry and run from or shutter our windows from when we see them walking in bunches down quiet Saturday blocks, dressed to the nines like carpet salesmen. "The cold makes you think of suffering doesn't it?" I recoiled a bit when she said this, hesitantly turning to scan her face. She was young, taut brown skin like mine, small teeth with natural gaps (a telltale sign of Caribbean or African heritage, to me at least) with added tresses neatly braided to the side, the back stuffed into the hood of her puffy black jacket. Squeezed between her gloved and trembling fingertips were thin blue pamphlets, with JW.com in the bottom right hand corner of the stack that most people refused to take during the day. My hands were firmly planted in my warm pockets and intended to stay there, but I shrugged and laughed an "I guess." She knew the question was awkward and extreme, but she pressed on with her practiced spiel. "When old people complain about the cold, you can tell it comes from a place of suffering, yes?" she ask-told me again. "In the bible, there is a passage that says there's a place of no more cold. No more suffering, isn't that a good thing?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Coming from a journalistic standpoint, her pitch and angle were reaching, but I nodded to humor her. The Q5 bus was still nowhere in sight. She continued on with her good news talk, saying that people should read their bibles and learn about Jesus for good things to happen. I agreed with her, nodding and offering the kind of smile that you know is done just to be friendly. She stammered, partly from the cold, but mostly from youthful nervousness. I wondered, did her mother put her up to this? Or was this voluntary? The bus pulled up slowly, and my eyes followed it in hopes she'd notice, too, and wrap it up. But then I looked back to her, as she wasn't through yet. "So if you ever need a bible study, you can just go here..." One of those sky blue pamphlets inched closer to me. "Well, I agree but I already have a church home and a Christian family, but thanks for sharing all this." She retracted her hand, accepting defeat but making sure to let me know that JW.com was always available if I changed my mind. Then, after a relaxed pause, she said finally, "And thank you so much for listening to me." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't expect to feel as great as I did in that freezing moment. More than likely, her day was full of rejection, handing out a sheet of biblical paper to a passersby only to see it in the wire trash bin on the next street corner, mixing with spilled cups of milky decaf, crumpled foil with leftover sandwich meat, newspapers and banana peels. More than likely unopened. Or the recipient of many silent treatments, turned up headphone volumes or straight back turns. An ear and five measly minutes of attention were like the spoon full of sugar Mary Poppins sang so gleefully about to dilute a bitter moment. It felt good to be that for someone. Someone just to listen to her and acknowledge her presence, her words, and her genuine love for The Lord without blowing her off or rudely dismissing her. Humbling to say the least. </span></div>
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Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-23931855625022577832014-12-30T14:27:00.001-08:002014-12-30T14:28:12.550-08:00Bruh, 2014 Was One Hell of a Learning Session<div class="p1">
By the end of each year, we flip back on old blog posts and diary pages to look at what we were so adamant about changing (or not changing) about ourselves. Praying that some inner or outer transformations occurred, trust circles shrunk and expanded, and that we know an ounce more about ourselves than we did 365 days ago. It's fun to wonder and revisit the mindset you left behind or lifted off with before all the confetti fell. </div>
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I was flapping my gums about honoring and focusing on me this year, and I think I've lived up to that more or less. I've experienced some serious highs and lows this year, channeling both sets of emotions into understanding not only my needs and wants, but how others factor into creating said emotions. A year of focus on myself turned into even greater lessons about the people I'm surrounded by. Whether I liked it at the time or not, outside elements and personalities really helped me learn about my abilities, my distractions, my limits and my lack thereof. </div>
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My professional life was an even bigger part of my personal life than I expected it to be, which had an equal amount of pluses and drawbacks. Spending nearly a year working from home, staring at glowing computer screen in my lap every evening while all my friends went out and formed new bonds and relationships without me, put a huge dent in my spirit. I felt like an outsider. In addition to loneliness (borderline depression), I struggled to find my identity as a writer because I just didn't feel connected to the greater vessel from where I was standing. I felt like an afterthought. It wasn't really anyone's fault, just a byproduct of circumstance, but it had me clamoring for a way out. Chess pieces moved around and my work scenario switched up, my mood revived with the presence of physical bodies around me more. I truly need the energy of brilliant minds around me to function, not just the idea of them and a Wi-Fi connection. I'm happy to say I feel more like family while on the clock and am less afraid to speak up while there. I have a personal agenda to fill, and it won't get done with me moping and sticking to the script in solitude.</div>
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Aside from work victories, I learned just how much support is out there between friends and "strangers." You don't know who is watching you, who is supporting you and who is cheering you on from near and far, not because they necessarily KNOW you, but just off the strength that they believe in you and your dreams. What an amazing feeling that is to have! I've been blessed enough to see it more than once this year. First of all, when I started writing this blog, of course I hoped people would read it, but I didn't understand HOW many people would read it. Or why they would read it. I've made friends I would've never expected to simply because of support. I've made wonderful international friends who've reached out simply to say how much they've been reading my blog and looking at my site and affected by it. I, in turn, have supported their creative endeavors and goings on and I'm oh so happy we've met, because they're amazing (heyyyy Ra'ed and Raheem and errybody over in Londontown!). Then thanks to a last minute invite to a blogger brunch, I connected with women writers and creators and dreamers who have been SO SUPPORTIVE of me, it knocks the wind out of me every single time. Women who only uplift, who didn't know me from a can of paint before, but always embrace me as part of their writer family, letting me know that my craft is respected and admirable. As is theirs! And it's amazing to have been scooped up and adopted by such a caring network of people without having first "prove my worth" or whatever competitive barriers our people/women put between each other. Nono, Tyece, Erica and EVERY one of you lovely ladies that I've come across from the top of the year til now, I love and appreciate you. Keep on shining and I can't wait for us all to kick ass with our pens, purpose and influence in 2015 and beyond. </div>
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Thennnnn, at my first ever art show, I was floored. I was nervous as hell and couldn't believe I convinced my shaky self to work up the nerve to showcase my art—something I wasn't sure about because I had no degree or professional practice in, just passion—to the world. The turnout could've made me cry. Aside from people actually financially supporting my vision (which I was over the moon about), the fact that people I never expected to be there were there, people I didn't know, old friends, new friends, loose friends, blood family, fake family, church family, braving the July heat to share such a major moment with me was blissful to say the least. I'm more than encouraged to take my creativity to the next level because I know that so many people believe I have the ability to. Even months after the fact, speaking about my past projects like the show and #30DaysofSELF to friends of friends. It's an out of body experience. I pushed my limits creatively, stepped out of my comfort box, and was rewarded with unexpected praise, excitement, encouragement and even folks saying how inspired they were. That speaks immeasurable volumes. And Julien and Charley, I am forever grateful for you!!!</div>
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I learned not to be afraid to let myself be happy just because the situation doesn't make sense immediately or wasn't predetermined. Happiness can come with spontaneity sometimes. As open a person as I think I am, I have a wall around myself in the form of checklists and precautions (I can't be alone on this one). But sometimes joy comes at you sideways, rapidly, and you're not sure what to make of it. How to process it. What does this mean? What about x, y, and z? This year taught me to let this question interject the internal interrogation: But are you happy, though? I answered yes, and I've remained happy. Imagine that! Allowing people into your world that you didn't expect to is fleeting and fun and scary and confusing and exhilarating and life. Just a part of life. A life is meant to be lived, damnit. </div>
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Finally—and least importantly—people I thought were friends exited my life sooner rather than later. And that's okay. I've learned to be unbothered by left field purges and see it as the lifting of a burden. No need for individuals with a trash sense of morality and concept of companionship to stay around and stink up my aura. Au revoir. </div>
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Yeah, I guess I was rambling a bit there, but it's amazing how much one year can teach you about shit. I'm amped and ready to school myself again in 2015.</div>
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-11219736979989700032014-12-26T12:27:00.001-08:002014-12-26T12:27:05.439-08:00Feeling Love, in Retrospect<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">We sat in silence, absentmindedly eyeing the backs of the wooly bus seats in front of us, occasionally stealing glances at the greenery whizzing by on our ride up from the Atlanta to New York City. Our hands were were clumsily linked at the fingers and rested on the lump of jackets between our laps. Dumb smiles plastered our 16- and 17-year-old faces. That moment could've easily been an awkward silence. But it wasn't, because just moments before, he'd asked me to be his girlfriend. And I said yes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Before that two-week college tour spent under loose adult supervision, he and I had said no more than a few words during brief hallway huddles with mutual friends. We were simply colleagues. In time, I'd learn that the L-word was more than just part of a Hallmark card greeting and the quiet, dreadlocked boy who sat on the other side of Ms. Medlin's English class would eventually claim ownership of my heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't really recall the moment I said I love you for the first time and meant it. I'm not even sure which one of us said it first. But I know that when we exchanged our virgin sentiments, the new feeling made perfect sense. Almost seven years of uninterrupted singledom later, whatever fleeting feelings I felt then have reduced themselves to a figment of my imagination. It's not that I've become scornful of love or anything. I just… forgot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some things I can still recount from our courtship. There were spontaneous trips to the Bronx Zoo and Roosevelt Field Mall during days off from school. There were times I'd visit his house to say hi to his mom, aunts, sister and little brothers, then sit on his bed not doing anything but playing Wii games, listening to Ne-Yo and (willingly) folding his laundry until it was time to head back to my side of the subway map. I remember trying to keep up with my best friend and her boyfriend to the pulse of Soca music down Eastern Parkway during the Labor Day Parade. Or that one time I went to National Wholesale Liquidators with my mother and pushed a wobbly cart down the hosiery aisle, imagining us one day grocery shopping as a couple. We talked for hours on the phone about everything and nothing as if I didn't have to get up before 6 a.m. for school the next day. Sometimes there were arguments about whatever, where I angrily hung up the phone just to see the same number call me right back minutes later, and him insisting that we just talk it out. Closing every exchange of words with "I love you." Yes, 2007 was no doubt a blissful year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">During the time we were together, my heart felt full of <i>something</i>. There were plenty of unforgettable experiences -- all kept in tact by Facebook pictures I refuse to delete for nostalgic purposes -- but now, I can't necessarily equate them with feeling "in love." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1">We are constant consumers of love-related things. It's a common motif in music, art, movies and other forms of daily entertainment. John Legend's <i>Love in the Future</i> </span>oozed the four letter word from the intro's first falsetto right down to the album coda. Flicks like <i>The Notebook</i>, <i>Love and Basketball</i> and <i>A Walk to Remember</i> refuse to remove themselves from at-home cuffing catalogues. Beyonce Knowles-Carter -- having been crazy, dangerously and drunk in love with the same guy -- could teach a post-graduate course on it. We gladly eat it up, living vicariously through the amorous stanzas and scenes left on wax and film reels. It's an experience to delight in without requiring present understanding.<span class="s1"> Love is such a huge part of the human experience, so it's a bit unsettling to have totally forgotten what it even feels like. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">According to the aforementioned, love is supposed to feel like a pleasant flutter in your gut. Fireworks in the sky when your lips connect. Everything else disappearing when you lock eyes. An electric current striking you when you know they're "the one." Why am I unable to mentally recreate a feeling like that, and one that I was so sure of back then?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I miss that familiarity. I bawl at every proposal video I watch without fail. Every. Single. One. I feel the waterworks a-coming during well-directed romantic movies and frequently aww and double tap coupley snapshots floating down my Instagram feed. I <i>love</i> love. I love the idea of love. I'm fascinated by the concept of immediate love. I believe everyone deserves love. And I know I want to be in love again. I just wish the idea didn't feel so foreign. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Looking back on it, I'm proud of whatever we had when we had it. Although the butterflies have long flown away and I can't say that I miss him, I thank him for planting that seed and setting up the potential for an even grander experience. I know the next time love hits me, I won't see it coming. </span></div>
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-19874675312517905962014-11-02T22:21:00.000-08:002014-11-02T22:21:06.356-08:00A Short Story About Something I Know Nothing AboutThis is old, very old. So old that I'm not sure if I like it anymore, so here.<br />
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I must have come on a super busy day. The struggles-of-a-baby-mama and I-hate-my-job chatter around me and the static-ridden television set showing an old episode of <i>All My Children</i> were hard to drown out. The smell of acrylic was making my head hurt and the short Asian man scrubbing the bottom of my feet tickled like all hell. My phone had been buzzing for damn near ten minutes and I couldn’t dig into my pocket to answer it for fear of ruining my French mani. </div>
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None of that could keep my mind from retreating to one thought and stirring up a week’s worth of worry. The only thing on my mind was how, ultimately, one word had turned into a life sentence. How could I have let that happen? </div>
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I scooped up my purse, tucked it under my arm and blew at my fingernails while being led to the nail drying station. “Careful! No touch!” my manicurist snapped at me. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, clearly distracted. Couldn’t knock him for making sure his work didn’t smudge. He pulled the chair out for me to sit down and placed my purse in my lap. That was grounds for a tip. But his efforts didn’t impress me for too much longer before I tumbled back into my conflicted thoughts. </div>
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“T! You ready?” My thoughts were yet again cut off. A man with a 6’2” frame, freshly re-twisted shoulder length locs, tamed facial scruff, deep Hershey Symphony bar skin, bright eyes and a line of pearly whites affixed into a beaming smile walked into Hui Ja Nails’ lobby. Every woman under the nail dryers (no matter how old) snapped their heads in his direction and tried to stifle the vocal demands of their hormones. “Oh, God…” I heard someone whisper. </div>
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“Give me like ten minutes under the dryer,” I answered him.</div>
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“Okay, hun.” He took a seat by the door and pulled out a rolled up copy of <i>GQ</i> from his inside jacket pocket, as if he expected me to not be ready. I laughed to myself at the thought. He knew me all too well. </div>
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I never thought in a million years that tomorrow, I’d be marrying Ray. </div>
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2002 was one hell of a year. It was my freshman year at Hillman University and I remember almost everything that happened as if it happened two days ago, unless of course the memory was wiped out by a hangover. I especially recall one day about three weeks before spring break. My dorm hall was running rampant with foolishness as usual. The heat in the hall was on high, and my some of my floormates were clad in cheek clenching shorts, crop tops and high heels, partaking in sporadic “fashion shows” and twerking contests. City locals with back home boyfriends checked in their men and brought them to their rooms until visitation ended at midnight. My roommate Desiree and I were idly sitting on the floor in the center of our room, making a list of places we’d visit during spring break if we actually had the money. In reality, I’d be bussing it back to my New Jersey home and she’d be visiting her cousins in Virginia. </div>
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“Venice! Or maybe London,” I’d suggested.</div>
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“You’re aiming too high, Tamera. That’s a senior year trip,” Des countered. “Maybe Cancun?”</div>
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“That sounds nice,” I said. “But what about the Bahamas? Girl, I’m trying to see Atlantis.”</div>
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“Or Vegas!” interrupted one of my floormates who poked her head into our room while shaking her behind to “Drop and Give Me 50.” We left the door open because the hallway commotion never failed to entertain. She hadn’t broken her body’s cadence since she spoke. “You know, what happens in Vegas… stays in Vegas!” </div>
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Des and I held our stomachs in laughter at the talk we were engaging in. All of a sudden, Soulja Boy’s “Donk” resonated throughout the hallway. Someone had some <i>mean</i> speakers. Nonetheless, this was the freshman girl’s party anthem. There was no way Des and I could sit this one out. </div>
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The beat pulsed and made the walls quake. We joined in on the signature bouncing dance that usually accompanied this song until I heard an unfamiliar voice in my room. </div>
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“Um, I’m sorry, but is this Liz’s room?” it boomed.</div>
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I froze mid-twerk. I turned around to see a fairly attractive young guy with neatly braided dreads, nicely fitted jeans, a plain white tee and sneakers, holding a denim jacket in his hands. His face was familiar. I’d seen him sitting with the football players in the cafeteria from time to time. Charm aside, I was pretty annoyed to be walked in on like that. “No,” I said flatly. I saw him look up at our room number above the doorway. He looked genuinely confused and visibly uncomfortable after my reaction. Des, who hadn’t stopped dancing, continued with the conversation. “Naw hun, two doors down!” He thanked her and said sorry to me again. I flashed a fake smile at his apology before turning my back to him. He hesitated one more time before walking down the hall. </div>
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Des lightly punched my shoulder. “Aw lighten up, T,” she said. “Don’t front like he wasn’t fine.” I laughed but didn’t answer her. She was right, though. </div>
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After that day, I started seeing him at random school events. At each one, we never caught eyes, and I didn’t try to make that happen. We just kept passing each other by, although I always felt like he noticed me every time. One warm day while I was sitting outside of the student center doodling in my notebook to kill time, someone blocked my sun. I looked up. It was my room intruder. </div>
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“Hey,” he said. </div>
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“Hey,” I returned. </div>
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“Can I sit here?”</div>
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“Sure.”</div>
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I moved my things over to make room.</div>
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“I just wanted to say sorry for walking into your room that time. I know it happened mad long ago but I just wanted to say sorry again.”</div>
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I laughed. “It’s cool. No biggie.”</div>
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He smiled, relieved. “Ok, phew. We never really met or anything like that. I’m Ray,” he said, sticking his hand out.</div>
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I shook it. “Tamera Wayne.”</div>
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Time would later reveal to me that he was Raymond Blaine, a New Yorker whose family relocated to North Carolina when he was 12. He was a junior studying marketing and on academic scholarship as a wide receiver on the football team. He shared a lot of my interests, such as recreational sketching, being a music aficionado and a devout comedy stan. He liked going to church when he wasn’t too tired, was very social, got solid A’s and B’s, and loved to eat but loved to cook even more. </div>
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He was an interesting dude. As the months progressed, he ended up becoming a good friend. Our social circles were often at the same functions, so we got to hang together often enough. And when we weren’t together, we’d be texting and talking about whatever nonsense we’d encountered that day. Ray reminded me a lot of my best friend back at home, Tisha. I forced him to talk to her on the phone one day, just because. They ended up talking for half an hour. Later, all Tisha kept saying was how alike they were. “Is that ya boo?” she asked. “Naw girl, Ray’s the homie!” I insisted. I could feel the ‘mhmm’ face she was giving me through the phone. </div>
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Life kept running its course with us. When he graduated, he was still somewhat accessible to me. He went to Georgetown University for his MBA. In between tests and studying, we’d catch up whenever we had a bit of free time. I didn’t realize how much I liked him until we were grabbing some Pinkberry and I'd laughed too hard at one of his jokes. Somehow, a dab of frozen yogurt wound up on the tip of my nose. Before I could even think about it, he used a napkin to gently wipe it away. I found myself looking him in the eyes for a long time and smiling bashfully, feeling like a 12-year-old girl. He’d smiled and looked away. I assumed he felt the same way, too.</div>
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During homecoming my senior year, he confirmed my assumption. He’d asked me to go to the R&B show with him. He’d already bought the two tickets. Musiq Soulchild was the headliner, so I was more than excited to go. When we were looking for our seats in the darkness of the auditorium, one of his old teammates spotted us and came over to say catch up. </div>
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“Yo, Ray! I haven’t seen you in a minute!” The two men dapped each other up. “Hey, Tamera!” He gave me a warm hug. </div>
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He turned to Ray and pointed his thumb at me and asked him, “This ya girl?” </div>
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This could have quite possibly been the most awkward moment of my homecoming experience. Could have been. Instead, after a few seconds of hesitation, Ray looked at me and I looked back up at him, and we smiled at each other; quite stupidly, might I add. Then put his hand gently on the small of my back. I felt a shiver of approval shoot up my spine, which processed itself into a light nod. “Yep,” Ray told him finally. </div>
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His friend smiled and winked him the okay. “Good catch,” he said. And from then on, I was his girl. </div>
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Fast forward five years. Past the day he met my parents at my graduation. They loved him. Past the time I met his during his house warming party in Brooklyn, NY shortly after he received his degree. They adored me. Past the summer block party he planned last year that led to his proposal at the end of his ‘Cheers to the Future’ end-of-summer speech, in which I walked away with runny mascara and a 1.5 carat engagement ring. </div>
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My wedding day was tomorrow, and I felt like I had made a mistake by saying yes so soon. </div>
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For some odd reason, I felt like I had violated the young, wild and free manifesto that was floating around in the omniposephere somewhere. I was throwing my freedom away when I still had so many years to live life sans apprehension. The only person I had to answer to besides God was my damn self. What if being tied down would drain me of it all? Everything I did from this point onward would have to be executed in the name of “we.” I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with that.</div>
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Maybe the immeasurable joy I constantly peeped while watching my namesake on <i>Tia & Tamera</i> would come. But what if it doesn’t? What if he turns on me? </div>
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I had to look at it through an actuarial lens. Was eight years long enough to know the man who’d eventually father my kids? Well, I’d only officially been with him for five. As the saying goes, "Til' death do us part." <i>Death.</i> Will Ray actually satisfy me until I die? I don’t see the numbers working out.</div>
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What was the problem with him? Better yet, what was my problem with being essentially given to him for… forever? And where was all this timidity in me coming from? There was no one in my family to inherit that from; both of my parents and both sets of grandparents were extremely headstrong and confident in all that they did. </div>
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What was the real issue here?</div>
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Well, unrequited love wasn’t the issue. He let me know everyday that he not only loved, but was in love with me. When we play fought and I was getting my ass whooped, he’d kind of fall back and let me win. Then he’d tell me, “You just got lucky punk,” and kiss me on my forehead. (I had only told my best friend that forehead kisses were my weak spot. He just stumbled upon it one day and I swooned every time thereafter.) It wasn’t the family. I never felt like a stranger in his parents’ household. On some days, it feels like Mr. and Mrs. Blaine love me more than they love him. His older sister is <i>my</i> bridesmaid, that’s how close we’d become. And it sure as hell wasn’t his physical. It was part of my daily routine to feel looks laced with death threats when Ray was on my arm. I’d become immune. Not to mention that if I were trapped in a burning building, he could scoop me up to safety and still have enough strength to grab some luggage just in case. It wasn’t any of that. </div>
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So, then what the hell was it? All this doubt had to come from somewhere. I’d run this question through my mind every day for a week and couldn’t find an answer. It was the night before the wedding at my bachelorette sleepover party with all my girls, and I still couldn’t answer it for myself. I hadn’t let anyone know how I felt, because I didn’t understand how I felt. </div>
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“Oh gosh, stop thinking about him!” Tisha joked. She laughed at my visible blushing. “You’re in love like shit,” she continued. Tish always went beyond the call of her best friend duties. She would always be the one to spot when I was having a weak moment and talk sense into me. Now, her maid-of-honor duties were kicking in and her words couldn’t have come in at a more perfect time. “I’m so happy for you guys. One day, I hope to find what you have.”</div>
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Right then and there, I let out the heartiest laugh I could muster up in weeks. I laughed at myself for letting the mindset of old friends still dwelling in the land of the single psych me out of accepting the promise of forever with the one who loved me more than I loved myself. I couldn’t believe I’d spent time considering doubts and finding reasons against tomorrow. <i>The fuck?</i> I let out a sigh of relief.</div>
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My nerves lifted. I was exactly where I belonged. It was time to really celebrate. “I’m getting married, hoes!” I screamed excitedly. My bedroom erupted in cheers, girlish laughter, hugs and the clinks of way too full Moscato-filled champagne glasses. I was glad to be in the company of the women closest to me, who had pledged to have my back and always keep my best interest in heart. I was even more blessed to have them at my wedding tomorrow. Nothing could make my night better.</div>
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My phone buzzed on the ottoman beside me. In between sips of bubbly, I unlocked my phone. <i>3-9-0-2</i>, the day Ray and I met. I checked my unread text message.</div>
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<i>“<-- Currently the happiest man alive. C u tomoro.” </i></div>
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I couldn’t fight the tears welling in the corner of my eyes from Ray’s text. I looked to God and let a “Thank you” slip out. I wiped at my eyes and took another swig. </div>
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Yes. He was, in fact, the one. </div>
Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-17529744170944663092014-10-22T19:41:00.002-07:002022-09-11T08:18:18.508-07:00Why Can't I Find Life's Cheat Sheet?I don't know shxt, and there's nothing I hate more than that. <br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Answers are worth more than money. They'd solve all the world's problems. Most importantly, they'd solve all of my damn problems. Every last inner quarrel I have with myself about the way to approach a challenge. Or not approach it. Foreshadowing outcomes before I prioritize my workload. Putting a timestamp on my patience. The best time to take a leap of faith. The common void in these situations? Answers, answers, answers. As elusive as Mariah's vocal prowess right about now. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's like, when people ask me what I am, what I do, where I want to be, how I plan to get there and my ultimate goals, I can never hit them with a straight answer in under five seconds. I stop and fidget, trying to encapsulate my dreams and hopes and swirl of ideas running through my mind a mile a minute into one concise sentence. It usually comes out as a stammer of inaudible words, then "a lot" or "everything." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And to an extent I'm telling the truth. In a perfect world, I will have my hand in more than one industry and will have accomplished <i>a lot</i>. If all goes as I daydream, I will have served as a top editor at a print or digital publication, be dabbling in freelance photo projects, and have a decent side life as an independent artist. I will have produced at least two books: one novel/biography/memoir (when my life story actually matters) and a book of photography. Mind you, this is meant to be in a lifetime, but I can only (prayerfully) see as far as 10 years from now. I have a plan without actually having a plan. So when the question comes around, in a bumble of words, ultimately I want to be a professional person-who-is-great-at-many-things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But maybe the real, real truth is that I don't freaking have a clue. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To this day, I still have not successfully ranked my passions and discovered my true calling in life. My niche. I don't know what I excel at, consistently. I do a lot of things (well, mainly 3) things very well. But I couldn't tell you which is my THING. What I wouldn't mind doing forever. I can't pick just one. And I never thought that was much of a problem until this year. I always considered it being "ambitious." There's something alluring about being a multi-hyphenate. Something elevating. Something respectable. But my bubble got popped when a journalist alluded to the fact that it's something unrealistic.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I visited a family friend's church for a special service where an award winning hard news journalist was the guest speaker. So naturally, she urged me to come with my mother to the service to network and hear what he had to say. Before he began his keynote, I was personally introduced to him as a journalism peer. He asked what I wanted to be ideally. Naturally, I paused to gather my thoughts before beginning my "do everything" ramble. When I was finished, he looked at me square in the eyes and said (paraphrased), "I can tell right away by the shiftiness of your eyes and your pauses that you're having self-esteem issues and you actually don't know what you want." Well damn. Then he proceeded to tell me about how lowly one of his mentees thought of herself in the industry and how she's working and still has to find herself. Disclosed her name and everything, and I'm very familiar with her work because this industry is pretty small. At first, I took so much offense to him telling me that within one second of meeting me. You don't know me. You're no shrink. How dare you put a measure on my potential because I didn't fire off one career I'd like to stick to for life?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But now that I'm in my feelings months later looking at all the crap I've done that's really not amounting to as much as I'd hoped, I'm wondering if he had a point. I won't say I have self-esteem issues when it comes to my professional life, but, like Sway, I really don't have the answers to this thing called my life in this time frame called the future. Sorry, Ye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And by the end of this post, I still freaking don't. Only thing left to do is play this:</span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/j5DySYu5Bfw" width="560"></iframe>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-37140803933236690222014-08-27T15:33:00.003-07:002014-08-27T15:43:34.625-07:00I Need New, More, Different Friends.<span style="font-family: inherit;">this one's short.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">i need to know more people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">i know people think that having "too many friends" is a thing, but that's stupid. limited. safe. why wouldn't you want to have someone to dial-up other than the regulars you toss back Henny shots with or the members of your graduating class? someone that has an area code you'd have to google search because they're that unfamiliar? someone to be your artistic muse? someone to see you as their artistic muse? someone who makes fun of your accent and tries to imitate it after you reciprocate the joke? someone to respectfully question your ideals and beliefs and offer insight into how they were raised because it's so different from your upbringing. someone who's skills sets don't align with yours at all, but that doesn't make them any less interesting? someone who's god-given talent is damn near otherworldly and secretly you're hoping that a shard of it will catch on to you with continued contact? someone to help you decode a map. someone to pull you out of your comfort zone? someone that you don't owe much to, yet you feel like you owe them the world after opening your eyes to what you've never seen outside of your life's cubicle? someone to ask me why i don't know kilometers, celsius, non-American "football" and other things the United States chose to be on their own shit about? someone to teach me french, german, arabic, swahili, catalan, dutch, greek, chinese and italian beyond the numbers 1-10? someone that grew up with struggle. someone born into privilege? someone who doesn't blow $7 on soy lattes everyday? someone who makes everything they consume from scratch? someone who lives almost in solitude? someone who farms, surfs, is a craftsman? someone who seldom uses their phone? someone who finds fun in nature? someone who only shoots with film? i don't know, just someone… <i>else</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">wanderlust is kicking in, and i need to know more people. </span>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-86511580215977896822014-06-18T21:44:00.003-07:002014-07-13T17:52:55.506-07:00Lost in New York<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">New York has always been perfection to me. It always will be. From the suburban enclave I was raised in to the bright, blinking and bustling city I got familiar with after starting high school. The overwhelming smell of jerk chicken on a grill and reggae pouring out of backyards in the summertime. The lilt of patois on crowded dollar vans running up and down Merrick Blvd that I used to be so scared of because I didn't trust strange drivers. Chugging along on the E, J, F, A, C, L, G and whatever other trains to take me to hubs of faceless people who pique my interest. So many shapes, sizes, colors, flavors, personalities. The ice cold silence on public transportation that I find oddly comforting. Scornful eyes following the person that bumped you a little too hard on the crowded platform, but the anger disappearing when you snag that empty seat. The sucking of teeth when you hear "Showtime!" in between express stops. Strolling around SoHo as if you're actually going to buy anything other than an H&M blouse and chicken over rice from the halal vendor. Watching the break dancers, skateboarders, lovers, homeless people, chess players and Hare Krishnas coexist in Union Square after dark. Being able to grab a Caramel Frappucino from Starbucks from any corner even though you don't really drink coffee like that. Knowing that the kids with hole-ridden Chuck Taylors, frayed jeans and greasy hair crammed into a beanie probably have more money than you. No one notices. No one cares. It's just the New Yorker way. I love it. Knowing that no matter how many people are around you, you are alone and not alone at the same time. You can be ass naked, or dressed head to toe in Balmain, if people turn their heads, it's only for an instant. And then the individual memory of you is gone as they hit the next traffic light. You exist as a people. Powerful in bulk. That was the main thing I loved about this city rife with individuality but majestic in all its anonymity. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And today, I realized that that sweet city relic is my handicap. Existing en mass, the urban charm that I usually brag about, is probably the source of recurring bouts of depression (not clinical, a girl just gets sad sometimes).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I keep a running tab of all the photographers whose work I love. Yes, I think I'm good at what I do and proud of what I've produced thus far. But I know I can, and need to, go deeper. Seeing them come alive when they shoot the subjects they're passionate above. Same with writers. And artists. Creating and curating and sharing and living and it's beautiful and I'm just here. Bookmarking articles from pen gawds and dope pictures I wish I took because i'm A, stuck in a monotonous and colorless routine, B, don't know what's truly "my thing," and C, too scared to take risks and spend money I don't have and talk to people I don't know to change it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I creep through Instagram, vicariously living through people's memories of things they've done and ways they've shined, wondering why the hell I'm sitting still, cotched in my room in far out Queens doing not a damn thing but scouring my feedly for the next Kanye West rant or Beyonce tumblr post. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And I'm like, is this life? People always tell me how well I'm doing and how much I've accomplished. How lucky I am to be here in amazing New York, the city of promise and opportunity and the best place to flourish. To an extent, I agree. But it's hard to nod along when I can't see it, not all of it at least. I'm on a totally different comparison scale as them. I don't know what they see, but I see what a successful me looks like a little differently: I'd know what I want. I'd know that I'm happy. I'd know who I am. And right now, I'm sure of only 10% of that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">New York is a great place to come here and conquer, but I'm coasting almost idly on my own stomping grounds. I don't feel that same rush as every other transplant. I live in what I see as the most awesome place in the world, but I kind of only just exist here as an awestruck spectator.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's hard as fcuk to find yourself here, because in all honesty, you don't really have to. They're so much going on in front of peoples' eyes and in their own lives that no one really sees you. They may look at you from time to time, sure, but you're never really seen. I'm not accustomed to being <i>seen</i>. I'm just here. And I didn't realize how much of a problem that was for someone as instinctively closed as me. For someone who doesn't really quite know herself. Yeah, yeah, I know certain things about me. I know some things I like, some things I can't stand and some things that intrigue me. But I can honestly say I don't know myself the way I should at this point in my life. I haven't been forced to find me. Ever. I've been smooth sailing in anonymity my whole life. Being vastly unknown is such a comfort until you step outside the parameters for just a second and realize that there's more. And thus, there's got to be more to me. But I have to step out on a limb and find it. I'm not going to know what's outside the bubble from the center of a moving crowd. I'm safe here. But I can't necessarily say that I'm happy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I graduated from college (the root of all my epiphanies, I'm sure), I wrote a letter to myself. The inspiration and contents of the two year old letter are foggy, which I'm happy about because that's the point. But I know that when I was writing it, sitting amongst all the possessions boxed up for the drive back to NY, I felt lost and unhappy. I sealed the envelope and signed the front with one rule: <i>Do not open until you have found yourself.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The envelope remains unopened and buried somewhere in a crevice of my room because I haven't met the basic prerequisite.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I feel like in order to find whatever the hell I'm looking for—which could be nothing at all—I have to go. Just go. Kind of without thinking almost. I just have to be somewhere other than New York and start from scratch. Take risks while being scared shxtless. Talk to people. Be uncomfortable and deal with the discomfort. Have intense emotions other than an extreme case of wondering. It needs to feel more like wanderlust. Want to change. Create stuff. I dunno. Learn to stand on my own and let myself be out in the open with everything to lose. Tell New York to finally let go of my hand. </span></div>
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Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-90490563343669900702014-05-03T14:22:00.002-07:002014-05-03T14:31:59.742-07:00So… What Was #30DaysofSELF, You Ask?<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Around this time a few days ago, I would be scrambling around my house with my tripod and camera in hand, searching for an unphotographed nook and a little inspiration to produce what manifested itself as #30DaysofSELF.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why the heck did I embark on such a journey, force-feeding my face to timelines for the entire month of April? To be honest, when I first started it, I literally had no idea. It was March 31 and the idea just came to me. Well, the name rather. It sounded like a dope hashtag, a great challenge like all the other writing ones of yesteryear I'd attempted and failed. But I didn't want to write for 30 days.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I looked over to Gavin Desmond (yes, I named my camera) perched on my dresser, catching dust since I last used it to </span><a href="http://sellisthewriter.blogspot.com/2014/03/escape-to-nola-my-first-mardi-gras.html" style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">archive my trip to New Orleans</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> at the top of March. <i>Hmm, this can be a self-portrait challenge</i>, I </span><span style="color: #222222;">thought to myself.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> <i>I've never done one before, so let's just give it a go and see what happens</i>. And that was that. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNv06I1bBGAIx0ZjDdmMXruIz0ThSPY-suf4aVC4_Cq0A4GhSSfzNDtbZabwDsws91IutAzSiD5EqLv6mmi1EAL1qfyXIKPxrSJ8OOX9ODiIkZKy8i24lnCSIQsGdnOvxp7n1vlpyaaQJ/s1600/eeIMG_6511.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNv06I1bBGAIx0ZjDdmMXruIz0ThSPY-suf4aVC4_Cq0A4GhSSfzNDtbZabwDsws91IutAzSiD5EqLv6mmi1EAL1qfyXIKPxrSJ8OOX9ODiIkZKy8i24lnCSIQsGdnOvxp7n1vlpyaaQJ/s1600/eeIMG_6511.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 4</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To be honest, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. I didn't have any sort of preconceived notion or planned outcome. I didn't have a blueprint from any other person since I made it up on a whim. I barely had a concrete objective. But what I got out of it was truly a blessing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It literally became my baby, my idea that I conceived and was committed to every day whether I had the energy or not. My duty to explain its purpose to anyone who asked. My responsibility to love it and own it unconditionally. And others did, too. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGcbulHu4csSnQYLlWtH7yqbabrGozAupOupnTC8UzeEuC_PMHRttWobKlJ8U9ZuhDIRBQZFUIFzZZSEel7BNWISjbdXCybslH7yjOinQcBwqrYceTtgzWyTdwR8aWV-8Se9rXq08mYDA/s1600/eeeIMG_6735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGcbulHu4csSnQYLlWtH7yqbabrGozAupOupnTC8UzeEuC_PMHRttWobKlJ8U9ZuhDIRBQZFUIFzZZSEel7BNWISjbdXCybslH7yjOinQcBwqrYceTtgzWyTdwR8aWV-8Se9rXq08mYDA/s1600/eeeIMG_6735.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 8</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You see, when I was snapping away at my face everyday, I would cringe a little bit when people referred to them as "selfies." Sure, we all love a good selfie now and then, but it was more than what social studies attribute to millennial narcissism. For one, it was art. I was forced to exercise discipline and use my real camera everyday, no matter how much stuff I had going on that day. (I'll be honest, I cheated on two days, using pictures that were runner ups on other shoots—because they were full, hour-long productions—just to make sure I didn't miss a day.) I had to compose shots that I saw in my mind and use myself as the test dummy. To take mental notes for future photo projects. To actually experiment with subtle enhancements in post-production, because I barely edit my photos. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But aside from it's obvious artistic elements, it was a way for me to dive a little deeper into myself and let people see how far into the pool I'd jumped. To find new and creative ways to see myself: meaning how people may see me, how people may never see me, and how I want to see me. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 16</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's get real, how many of you have ever seen me sporting "lusty eyes" and a beat face in a group picture, or in person <i>ever</i>? I usually throw on my safe and standard school picture smile. It's cute, reliable and works for me and my high cheekbones. But what people seldom see in person is when I'm feeling myself a little. When I actually feel unapologetically pretty. I don't let any of that surface for some reason. Feels silly. And I don't like conceit, but what I do love is confidence. #30DaysofSELF forced me to be confident while people were watching and waiting to see what I had to offer next. Once I started it, I knew I was obligated to finish it because of how much my progression and my journey was in demand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't expect that part of it. Yes, I expected a little curiosity. <i>What's this about? How are you taking those photos?</i> Things like that. But when I went out and about, friends took the conversation about the challenge offline. Even people I'd never spoken to before. Telling me how inspiring it was, or even just entertaining. Citing favorites and offering suggestions for others. Half seriously asking to be included in the day's selfie. Requesting an extension of the project. Wondering what's next, because there <i>needs</i> to be a what's next. It was so overwhelming. Sometimes it felt awkward to be acknowledged like that. I couldn't shy away from the fact that I was posting "out of character" pictures of myself for the 'net to digest, so it would clearly become a talking point. But I needed that. I'm such a firm believer in humility, but this helped me to be okay with accepting praise for something I worked my ass off on and just taking it in, being appreciative and using the feedback as inspiration for something greater. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 17</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And speaking of continuations, nothing excited me more than to hear people plotting their own #30DaysofSELF exploration projects. </span><br />
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<a href="https://twitter.com/stassi_x">@stassi_x</a> inspired me. 30 days of self on Instagram. If I don't find the beauty in me, who else will?<br />
— Lily Tucker-Pritchet (@HighTSociety) <a href="https://twitter.com/HighTSociety/statuses/462047135530504192">May 2, 2014</a></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I won't call it a photo challenge, per say. The inaugural installation of the challenge was photo based for me, but SELF applies to anything "me"-related. It may be words. It may be lifestyle. It may be art. It may be experiences. It's whatever the person attempting it needs it to be for their spiritual gain. And I'm so excited to see this possibly turning into something bigger than me. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 27</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't lie, I was quite relieved when May 1 rolled around. By the end of it, I was drained. But it was a good drain, one that I'd never felt as a byproduct of my own initiative before. I don't know when I'll revisit the challenge again, but I will in one way or another. Whenever I'm seeking growth, discipline, focus, confidence, self-love or just experiencing a creative dry spell, I'll know just the remedy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I peppered a few of my favorites from my #30DaysofSELF April 2014 Edition, but you can see all of them <a href="http://www.stacyannellis.com/1381124-30daysofself" target="_blank">here on my website</a>. If you plan to attempt your own challenge, PLEASE let me know! I'd love to be as big of a cheerleader for you as you were for me =)</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Day 30</i></td></tr>
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Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-88482394642742445092014-04-15T23:42:00.003-07:002014-04-15T23:45:56.388-07:00Stuck At The Light: A Short Story<span style="font-family: inherit;">"This doesn't really mean anything does it."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I kept cutting at my steak. Without breaking my concentration, I pulled a medium-well cube of meat from the tip of the fork with my teeth. It was a question I knew wouldn't end well. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"You've asked that question before," I said, glancing up at him. He fidgeted uncomfortably across the dinner table, swirling whatever was left of his Riesling in his glass. He'd been doing that for the past ten minutes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"The fact that I still feel the need to even ask it is what's bothering me..." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt bad. Chey was a nice guy. A great guy, actually. I met him at an internship luncheon two years ago and we clicked immediately, making sure to exchange business cards at the end. We kept in loose contact for about a year and a half, updating each other via texts and emails about our day jobs and occasionally grabbing coffee during our off days. He was a senior account executive at some hotshot advertising agency in the city, but you wouldn't be able to tell unless you asked for his resume. He was a natural jokester, and laughter came easy and often with him. Even when he clowned me for having flyaway hairs or tripping over the gaps in the sidewalk, I couldn't help but laugh before the embarrassment set in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Chey was a looker, too. He was tall enough for me to wear my favorite black pumps, tip toe in them and still not match him. He was sturdy without looking like a ball of muscle, but gave warm, gentle hugs that could make you lose track of the time if you nuzzled into his chest. His even, ceramic skin had a warm glow to it and his high cheekbones were peppered with freckles that seemed to dance around his glassy brown eyes when he laughed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I just want to know where we stand," he continued, his eyes pleading with mine. His inquiry was a fair one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This was our fifteenth "date." His words, not mine. Outings were a more appropriate term. And this was an outing with a friend… who wanted to add "boy" as a prefix. I dodged his hints as often as he dropped them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My mother fussed over my lack of commitment the weekend prior. "Dionne. Are you blind? Chey is a keeper." She made it quite clear that she was pro-Chey. "Get with it. Or stop stringing this young man along if you're not going to take him seriously. It's not fair for him to be hanging in the balance while you get your act together."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ma wasn't wrong. I mean, when was she ever? Chey was undoubtedly a great friend and fun companion for city explorations and fine dining. He even willingly listened along whenever I needed to talk my shit, which I did quite often. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He was <i>nice</i>. But nice wasn't quite enough. He didn't thrill me. He wasn't like Dane, and for some reason, I couldn't look past that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I swallowed hard, put my fork down and took a sip of my water. The icy river refreshed my mouth, which felt parched from my absence of a suitable response. How I could I just up and admit that the mere memory of Dane washed Chey Chadwick right off my palate?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I honestly don't know, Chey."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"What?" He cleared his throat. "You don't know what Dionne? You're nobody's fool and neither am I. You know how I feel about you. I'm sure I've made that clear, right?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"We've been out so much. Don't we have fun? I care about you, and I feel like you feel the same about me. Or you want to feel the same, but you won't just let it be. Am I doing something wrong?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Nothing's wrong with you, Chey. I promise you that. It's not you. You're a great guy and an even better friend and…"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He cut me off. "Then what is it, if it's not me? Or <i>who</i> is it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dane's Hershey skin, wide smile and strong, enveloping arms flickered in my mind, and I couldn't muffle the evidence of his memory from my smirking face.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He quieted a bit. "So it's still Dane..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'd briefly mentioned my "ex-factor" to Chey on one of our earlier strolls around the city, but it was my mother who'd educated him on the "mistake" that was Dane Markman, divulging the fallout that happened between him and our family two years ago without asking me if it was okay to share it all. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"He's no good for you," Ma had always pressed. I hadn't seen that. All I saw was the lover who recognized me as his Queen, who made me feel sexy with every cradle and caress, who left me a melted puddle after moments of intimacy. A man who wasn't afraid of spur-of-the-moment adventure, taking risks and veering off the designated path. "Life's a gamble," he'd always say to me with eyes lit up before one of our shenanigans. "And you can't win if you don't play." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One night, my parents realized that certain valuables were missing from the house. All fingers immediately pointed to Dane. "Take that thieving pile of filth outta my house before I drag him out myself! " she yelled at us as we came into the house arm in arm after a night out. I clutched his hand tighter with each overly enunciated word. The venom coming from her scowling mouth stung even me. He assured me that none of the missing money and jewelry was of his doing. "Babe, look at me." He gently held the tip of my chin with his thumb and forefinger and turned my face towards his. "Why would I ever do that?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Don't touch my daughter!" my mother snapped at him, lunging. "Get out of my house!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"But mom he…" I started. I believed him then. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Dionne, don't you <i>dare</i>! Get rid of him. Or you can get the hell out of my house with him. Pick one!" I knew my mother, and I knew that she was dead serious. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That was the last night we made contact. I technically broke up with him to appease my fuming mother, but within a few weeks I called him. Ultimatum or not, I was still in love, and hoped that we'd still have a future after the situation blew over. I was shocked to find that the number had been disconnected, and his apartment vacated. Our chapter was forced closed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Now, Chey, I didn't say that…" My voice was so low, one would think that my defense was a secret to myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He exhaled deeply, turning his head away from me. "You didn't have to." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He pushed out his chair to stand and dropped the white napkin that cloaked his lap all night onto his plate. The brown stain of gravy spread from the center of the cloth outwards as quickly as a virus. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred dollar bill, placing it down on the table and anchoring it with the unused dessert spoon. Then I watched him turn away from the table, away from me, and walk towards the front door of the restaurant, not looking back. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The air was silent, and I could feel the nosey eyes of the establishment on me. They felt heavy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I eased my foot forward underneath the table, hooked the leg of the empty chair across from me and pulled it in. I cut apart another square of my porterhouse and idly pushed it around the plate with the edge of the steak knife, shaking my head. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Great. Just great." </span>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6509306429754071941.post-60297144563962809832014-03-30T22:32:00.000-07:002014-03-30T22:32:32.071-07:00Wishing Death On A Part Of Me<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't believe in suicide, and that makes things a little tricky. It's extreme. I don't want to kill me. But a small part of me, yes, I do. Her name is Shy, and I want her dead. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Shy -- and all the other traits she brings with her (second guessing, waiting, missing opportunities because I simply don't take them) -- is nagging and annoying. She's smothering like a pastor is to his teenage daughter, or like a significant other fishing for some Instagram-worthy PDA. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I want to be let alone to just do my thing, here Shy comes, hovering over my shoulder like cartoon depictions of Satan. Whispering what-if's into my ear without giving the angel a chance to land on the other side of my mind and tell me go for it. <i>You can do it. What have you got to lose? Go say hi to him. Go ask for a promotion. Start your own passion project. Ask and you shall receive.</i> All that inner encouragement drowned out by the white noise of self-apprehension. Senseless fear and fuzziness. A barricade that I have no idea how to disassemble because Shy fixed it up good and tight, tossing out the instruction manual early on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was drifting into my late teens, there was so much that I wanted to change about myself. Physical things, mostly. I hated my feet. My knees. My bow legs. My boobs. My ears. My hair. My skin (never my skin color, though). I thought I was corny. Unpopular. A nerd. An oreo. A late bloomer. Luckily I did a lot of growing since then and eventually a lot of loving. I'm very happy with how I turned out and appreciative of the quirks God gave me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Except. Being. Shy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That is the one thing about myself I wish I could isolate, extract and discard like a tumor. By nature, I'm a quiet one until someone gives me the okay to open up. When a person emits positive vibes, goofy even, I can drop enough of my guards to converse and laugh and joke. But not everyone is like that. Not everyone is going to have "I'm a jokester" written across their face. And that's okay. They have the right not to. They may be wonderful people. Helpful. Necessary. But closed. That's when I get shy. I turn into the person that doesn't speak until they're spoken to, retreating to her text message inbox to escape uneasiness and unfamiliarity. I <i>hate</i> that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes I think I can trick her. Shyness, I mean. I psyche myself up with a good pep talk. Run down my resume or the list of reasons why I'm awesome in my head. Cute guy in the distance. Project taking perfect form in my head. Job I think I'm perfect for. <i>Show 'em what they're missing, girl!</i> I tell myself. Then I make the mistake of thinking twice, and I freeze up. It feels a few degrees colder on the inside of my body. I feel dumb. I hold back. And I think about what could've happened in that moment if I didn't have cold feet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eff my confidence. My spontaneity. It's instantly cock-blocked. She shows up right on schedule, and I want to hurl both fists at the mirror without restraint. Shards of glass may splinter up and fly back in my direction, breaking skin here and there. But she'd be dead, right? The hindrance would no longer be there. I could do what I please, say what I want, step to whoever I find interesting or necessary without her attached to my hip like a conjoined twin. The freedom feels so close, so within reach...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But she always senses my cowardice, so she just stares back at me through the glass, challenging me. I back down. Shyness- 1, Me- 0.</span>Stacy-Ann Ellishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04213948556423602753noreply@blogger.com1