An Enthusiastic "Yes"!

I was babbling with a good male friend recently and he said something that made me blink fast. We were talking about sex, and his frustration with his current girlfriend whose sex drive doesn’t match his. It’s nothing super off, but he gets turned down, on average, three times a week. He could have sex every day, she’s only interested 3-4 times per seven day cycle. The conversation reminded me of a panel I’d sat on just before Valentine’s Day. We were talking about sex drives and the ideal number of times people, say… 21-35, should be getting it on. The guys, of course, threw out numbers like daily and at minimum five times a week. The expert (male) co-signed them and said to the ladies (in so many words), that  we should be having sex as often as possible, that our sex drives should be through the roof. There was a suggestion that if we, women, didn’t want sex, then we should re-evaluate our sex drives and learn to.

Huh?

I didn’t object. There was so much to object to that night that I’d lost my energy. (I did for plenty of other things, including other massive double standards.) But I sat on my stool wondering how we can go by the premise that women can be re-configured to rev up their sex drive, but we don’t apply the logic that men can turn their’s down. Why is there an expectation that she do more? Why can’t he do less? Why does his normal trump hers? Clearly my feminism (aka logic) was peeking out.

“So what do you want her to do? Do you when she doesn’t want to?” I asked my friend jokingly.

It’s an idea that’s beyond me. I’ve had sex before when I didn’t want to. It wasn’t rape. I didn’t offer a “no” to be ignored. But didn’t offer an enthusiastic “yes!” either to give consent. Just kind of gave in to his persistence with a meek “okay” and laid there counting the pumps until he was done and hoping I didn’t dry out in the process. I felt about like Shug Avery once deduced from Cellie's story about Mister:

A: You make it sound like he was going to the toilet on you. 

B. That's what it feel like. 

After the last time, I promised myself that going forward unless I was 100% "yes!" the answer was “no.” I’d deal with the fallout when it came— the guilt tripping, the relationship re-evaluation, the idle, convert threats of ‘what you don’t do someone else will’. Okay. Whatever it was, couldn’t be worse than the way I felt laying there waiting for him to finish doing his business.

“Well yeah,” my friend answered. “That’s what everyone else does.”

He didn’t get his new girl. She was the first woman that had ever told him “no”, had not even attempted to pacify him by offering oral at best, or a hand job at worst when she wasn’t in the mood too. The women before him had all been like I used to be. He made his wants known either verbally or by being all up on her. And when she wasn’t in the mood, she initially rebuffed him, but then he persisted, and after a bit, she just gave in. Never said no, never said yes, but she spread her legs so he did what he wanted and never thought about what she really wanted. She didn’t say no, so she must have meant yes.

He went on to tell me that he felt rejected when his girl said no. Not a surface type, but a bone deep ache that messed with his head until he couldn’t get to sleep some nights long after she was snoring beside him (yes, she snores too.)

He sat across from me rolling around all the shortcomings that would make her say no. He’d internalized it to be about something he was doing. At the same time, I was sitting there respecting the hell out of her for respecting her body enough not to allow it to be used for someone else’s pleasure when she didn’t feel like participating. And too, I was wondering why so many women say “okay” when what we really want to say is “no.”

There was a great article on Jezebel yesterday about this topic that breaks it all down. In “How I Learned to Set Boundaries in Bed”, Clarisse Thorn recalls of a past relationship:

One night we had a terrible fight. It was a complicated, wide-ranging fight, but a main theme was this: he couldn't deal with us not having sex. He made this very clear. He said, "You think I'm okay with living together and not having sex with you?" I told him I could leave if it was really that bad. That I could give him my share of the rent, and leave. I think part of me was hoping that he'd say, "Fine, leave!" But he insisted that he would be crushed if I left, he insisted that I had to stay. He did nothing to alleviate the sexual pressure on me.

So I had sex with him. Of course. It took me a few weeks, but I did it. I did it because I was in love with him. I did it because I felt guilty, as if having a strong emotional connection with a man is wrong if you don't "pay" him with sex. (Hey, "everyone knows" chicks have sex in exchange for relationships, right?) I did it because I thought it was "worth it", I thought it "wasn't that bad", even though I hated every minute of it.

When we started having sex again — I remember that it was dark, afterwards, and he said: "I've been wanting to do this for months," and he kissed me. I kissed him back enough to convince him that I liked it, and then I turned my head away, and I cried. I kept my body still and I didn't make a sound. I cried because I felt so trapped, because I felt so sick with myself, and I didn't let him see it because somehow — somehow — I'd convinced myself that this, too, was just a cost I had to pay for this relationship. I can't understand it now, but I guess I actually believed that I not only owed him sex, but that I owed him the illusion that I enjoyed it.

The article is fascinating (and a great read), but what struck me most was an idea that arose in the comments:

 A woman's enthusiasm for sex should be a requirement for sex to take place.

It is a societal problem that so many women agree to have sex they don't want, but it is also a societal problem that so many men are willing to settle for sex where the woman is just putting up with it.

Discuss.

Do You Care What He Thinks? Should You?

Took time out if editing The Belle Book last night to tinker around the gossip sites. Sue me. They make me laugh. Over on Necole Bitchie I found a link to the article “Why A Change To Your Appearance Might Mean The End Of You And Your Boo” by LJ Knight.  CLICK HERE FOR FULL STORY.

Seems Amerie’s ungodly hair change from black to platinum blonde struck a nerve. His first observation? “I hate it. That cheapens her look.” His second? “I wonder what her fiancé thinks about it.”

Knight explains:

Men tend to be creatures of habit more so than women. They do not crave change as much. The idea of mixing things up for excitement is frightening to them, especially if they are already pleased with the current status.

When a man meets you, he sees the image you portray. Then, he decides whether or not he will accept it. If you alter that image, especially without forewarning him, then it’s like you lied or gave false advertisement.  This may lead to him being unable to see you in the same way that he once did.  Is this superficial? Perhaps. Nonetheless, this is how many men think.

Should your man be a part of your choices when it comes to your physical appearance? Some women think their man plays no role in the changes they make with their look… Or they are thinking that they should be able to do whatever the hell they want to themselves and their man’s opinion about it is not the deciding factor. I agree that you do have this right. However, we all know that in real life things do not always go down like that. So, let’s just keep it real.

Anybody who follows me on Twitter knows I’ve been wanting to shave my head for a few months now. The only reason I won’t is because 1) the streak is a trademark; and 2) I look better with hair. Oh and 3) when I ran the idea across CBW months ago at the height of my “I got to cut this!” hysteria, he looked at me blankly and said kindly, “No, B, I didn’t sign up for Amber Rose.” Then he ruffled my hair. So I kept growing the middle and kept shaving the sides. *

Do you know how I ended up with hair? I had a Caesar for the fifth or sixth time in my life back in early 2009. I shaved stars and hearts in it, depending on how I was feeling, and I got it buzzed every weekend for kicks. I had a BF. B… Remember B? One day, very nicely, he said, “why don’t you grow your hair out a bit?” I’d like to play in it.” Then he rubbed my head and kissed my nose. So I grew hair... and when it was long enough, I stopped cutting designs in the side and dyed the front tip blonde for more kicks.

He hated the blonde.

I loved it. So it stayed.

I thought about cutting my hair when we went our separate ways. But by then I liked doing it and dyeing it and playing in it and The Streak was "my thing." So it stayed.

Sigh.

Discuss.

*a couple weeks later, he went through my pic box and saw flicks of me with a blonde Caesar and gave his permission— as if I was waiting on it— for me to cut it.

"Are you an 'African'?"

We are not Africans... I say this all of the time.  It would be like white people saying they are  European-American.  That is totally stupid.  
  
I was born here, and so were my parents and grand parents and, very likely my great grandparents.  I don't have any connection to Africa, no more than white Americans have to Germany,  Scotland,  England, Ireland, or The Netherlands. The same applies to 99 percent of all the black Americans as regards to Africa. — Bill Cosby

Shortly after my college graduation, I hopped on an Amtrak train and headed North to see my boyfriend (at the time) who lived in New York. He told me to arrive dressed to go out, so I did: a polka dot a-line skirt, neon green wedges and a white wife beater. It was a take on Lauryn Hill’s look from “Everything is Everything” and it was uniform of the time. I wore a variation of that outfit everyday for years.

He took me to SOBs, a city venue known for its live shows. It was a dead prez performance in a room full of White people. You could count the Black people on one-hand if you excluded me and the BF. I thought of the now legendary ‘60s clip of James Brown performing “I’m Black and I’m Proud” to a room of White people who sung along. Forty years later I was watching a group of second or third-wave revolutionaries, devotees of Black Panther, Malcolm X, and George Jefferson rhetoric, perform “I’m an African.”

Ayo my life is like Roots it's a true story

It's too gory for them televised fables on cable

I'ma a runaway slave watching the North Star

Shackles on my forearm , runnin with the gun on my palm

I'm an African, never was an African-American

Blacker than black I take it back to my origin

Same skin hated by the Klansmen

Big nose and lips, big hips and butts, dancin,

What?

Am I an African? I wondered.

A few months earlier, I’d been sitting in a plaza near the Spanish steps in Rome with a Jewish roommate, Stephie, who looked Italian.  I was living overseas in London and we’d skipped our Art History classes about Italian art to actually go see the works in person.

We were sipping cappuccino like MC Lyte, pretending to be cosmopolitan when a few native Italian men asked if they could sit and chat. Going through the pleasantries, the men asked where we were from. Stephanie rattled off a few generations back tracing her family back to her great- great-grandfather heading to America on a boat from an Old World country I can no longer recall.

I’d cringed listening to her rattle off her family tree. From what I know, my people go back as far as North Carolina and Georgia. Before that, it’s a plantation, which one is anybody’s guess. I claim American because it’s an actual country and to say “African” like it’s a country when it’s a continent (and one I’ve never seen) sounds ill-informed.

“I’m African-American,” I say to the guys when it’s my turn to explain.

It’s the term American Black people use when they talk to non-Black people because it’s PC now. Few Black people call themselves or other Black people “African-American” in unmixed company. We just say “Black.” I have a deeper reason for defining myself "just" that way. Blame all those African-American studies classes where I learned the meaning of Diaspora. To say “Black” is more inclusive, connecting me to my Brothers and Sisters everywhere, not just in American. I’m all for the national pride over country of origin, but too often Black folks use it as a way to divide than just another way to define.

The guys cock their heads curiously, the universal symbol for “huh?”

“Are you African or are you American?” one finally asks.

I explain in so many words that the American South is my version of the Old Country. I should have just said Black and given them my reasoning.

“So you’re American?” the Italian deduces from my background, or at least the part I know.

I roll it around. Despite the connection between crunk dancing and the traditional dances of some African cultures highlighted in Rize, I don’t have a connection to Africa other than color. It’s a place I know less about than I do England or Spain or Italy since I’ve actually been those places to see the culture and soak up some.

“Yeah,” I say after a few beats. It’s more to myself than to my Italian and Italian looking companions. “I’m American.”

Funny how I had to leave the country to get defined as “just” that.

I am... yes I am... the descendant (yes, yes) of those folks whose, backs got broke who, fell down inside the gunsmoke (Black people!) Chains on they ankles and feet I am descendants, of the builders of your street (Black people!) Tenders to your cotton money

— Mos Def " Rock N' Roll"

How do you define yourself?

Visual Aesthetics

I said I wasn't going to write about this. I changed my mind. A few weeks back, a good friend and well-known DJ who shall remain unnamed, asked me to host his weeknight party at a Manhattan venue. Sure, no problem. I'm honored.

I send the invite to a bunch of close friends. A bunch of people RSVP to say they're coming thru. I compile said list and send it to my boy, who will pass it along to the venue.  Perfect.

I'm on the way to the club for midnight the evening of the party when my BBM blows up. It's one of my girls saying she and a friend of ours are at the venue. She was let in. Our friend was not.

"She's on my list," I insist. And she is. I double and triple check the lists for any event I do. I typed her name myself.

"Yeah, no," my girl says. "Hurry. She's about to leave."

Said woman who won't be allowed in is kind of a big deal professionally. But that's not why she was invited (and that's why I won't throw out her title here.) She was invited because she is my friend.

I'm ten minutes from the venue when my phone rings. It's my publicist. She arrived, ran into the friend who couldn't get in and tried to talk to the doorman on her behalf only to discover that she couldn't get in either. The doorman refuses to speak to her and says he'll deal with me when I arrive.

I tell her, "hold tight. I'll be there in five."

When I walk up, my publicist is arguing with the doorman, a black guy in a well tailored suit. He recognizes me (I was there every other week at that point), asks me to step behind the rope so we can talk. He opens it, then closes it, leaving my publicist on the other side.

"There's no need to talk to me," I tell him. "My publicist is who you speak to." This is why I have one, so I can focus on the business of being happy and hosting and popping bottles not dealing with behind the scenes headaches.

He won't let my publicist behind the rope, much less into the club. He lifts the rope, walks us to the curb. And though we're both standing there, he only addresses me.

"I tore your guest list up," he begins. "I—"

"I'm sorry. You did what?! Why?" I counter.

STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)

Nightline, Nightline, Nightline (cue Marsha)

I kinda don't want to talk about the Nightline panel that aired late last night. But somehow I feel like it's my Black blogger duty to do so... that and I was assigned to write a reaction essay for my job's website (causing me to skip out on attending the ESPN Draft Party) and I didn't have a chance to write a new post for Belle. Oops! My bad.

Someday, I'll give another try to writing my posts in advance, but they always read dry to me when I do that. They lack passion. Hmmm.

Anyway. Enough about my writer dilemmas. On to the essay, "Commentary: Nightline's Single Black Woman 'Face-Off'"

Confession: For several weeks now, I've been living in fear.

It started when I learned Nightline was headed back to Atlanta for a "Face-Off" debate with the title, "Why Can't A Successful Black Woman Find A Man?"

Jesus? Again?

Before I even knew the line-up (Steve Harvey, Sherri Shepherd, Jacque Reid*, Hill Harper, Jimi Izreal) or the questions (though as The Magazine's Relationships Editor, I guessed most of them), all I could think about was the aftermath of a show they did about the same topic back in December. What ensued was a sort of Single Black Woman hysteria (it occurs everytime mainstream media discusses the topic), an expected reaction when it's repeatedly implied that checking "single" on an application of any kind after 30 means you have somehow failed in life, and that your prospects of finding a great guy to love and love you back are pretty slim. I knew it would be best for me to self-medicate to avoid the PTSD that was to come.Sangria or ice cream? Which has less calories?

Surprisingly didn't feel I needed either as I watched the roundtable in its entirety online. It's possible this topic has been so over-covered that I'm numb. But actually? The segment wasn't as bad as I was expecting. (Jimi Izreal though?) I guess when you bring men and women to a roundtable to discuss relationships--as The Magazine also did in its May issue, currently on stands--you cut through a lot of the outlandish speculation and have a real progressive discussion. All forthcoming conversations about the state of heterosexual relationships should implement this policy as it's never made sense to me why same sex groups are expected to address dual sex concerns.

The panel, moderated by Nightline's Vicki Mabrey, covered the usual fare--interracial dating, Black men with Peter Pan syndrome, and the Obamas. But throughout, the lack of communication between the sexes bothered me. It seemed no matter how many times Sherri and Jacque reiterated what Black women want in a man, a guy with a steady job, who is secure with himself, who can provide a friendship, and partnership, and maybe help them take out their cornrows from time to time, the male half of the panel didn't seem to get it. Instead of listening to the ladies, Izreal told them what they wanted (as if): a Denzel prototype. Steve told the women the simple things they wanted weren't possible (you want a man to help take out your cornrows? Not in his DNA.) If five good and grown Black adults who all work in some fashion in the field of communication--and every man on the panel has a book on relationships--can't make sense of what the opposite sex wants, I wondered what hope does that leave for the rest of us mere mortals?

Something else that struck me was the underlying negativity of some of the responses. Was I the only one who noticed the weak overwhelmingly female audience response when Jacque said she believed good Black men existed? Anyway, when Hill offered the idea of dating a good man, even if he's a blue collar guy (it's not the only solution, but it's one.) Sherri shot it down with a long laugh and an anecdote about why it wouldn't work (it was her experience with one man. Does it apply to all men?) At another juncture, Steve stated a man, at all times, needs to feel like a man. The women took that statement to its most extreme conclusion that a man expects her to spend her waking hours validating his position, which women aren't (understandably) willing to do. I didn't think at all that was what Steve was implying, moreso like, "hey, try not to emasculate the guy." It's was another practical idea that could help us go a long way in re-building Black families, but like other useful suggestions, there seemed to be a mental block, well, blocking them from catching on.

I took away some useful male insight from the panelists--I am the potential link to a man's success, men may be more ashamed of their lack of success than "intimidated" by a woman's accomplishments, and men aren't trying to see me taking out my hair (maybe cause I date men with mother's who rock extra hair this has never been an issue for me. I've had dudes ask to sit in the bathroom with me while I put in my tracks.) But ultimately, what I re-learned was the biggest obstacle to building healthy relationships might be an inability to catch on to the fundamentals like communication and hope. I know it will take more than just that to get us down the aisle and over the broom, but we've got to get a command of the basics if the single 42% of us ever expect to to go from RSVPing for weddings to planning them.

Oh, and in case you were wondering: I went with the sangria. Red.

*Oh Em Gee. She looked straight stunning (cue Gucci Mane) last night. I may be developing a "girl-crush" on Reid.

How soon is too soon?

So if you follow me on Twitter (@abelleinbk), you know I’m sick. Called out of work and everything, which i you know me, you know I only do when I'm on death bed status. I hate sitting at home. The only thing I can do is lay on this couch and sleep, or type, and check the Internet. That would be how I stumbled about the idea for today’s post. So I’m over on YBF for the like the tenth time today and there are pics of Shaunie O’Neal and a new sexy boo. Ok. They’re in an airport headed back from a Maui vacay. She’s leaning on him like she’s tired. Real cute. She filed for divorce from Shaq in November, did The Magazine last month letting out some of their private biz to promote her new show, and the marriage will be officially over any second now. (note: she’s still married.)

Surprisingly, the reaction was very positive. A lot of “do you, Sister!” feelings. More than a few people noted the hypocrisy, pointing out that Gabrielle Union. Fantasia, and Alicia Keys have been vilified for dating men before the divorce was final.

“Shaunie and Shaq’s divorce isn’t final but it’s a celebration because she moved on with this fake model dude that’s using her for publicity. But some of these same folks dogged the hell out of Alicia and Swiss; and Fantasia and her man.”

There were another few who thought she was rushing things by moving on so soon:

“Shaunie should have waited until her divorce was final…her children are looking on. I don’t know what her relationship is with this man but she should have given herself time to heal. So when this relationship dissolves she going to go find another, and another…"

I recalled that yesterday there was a post about Kelis and her new boo, as well. Seems she was spotted all over greater Miami with Sanaa Lathan’s ex Chicago Bear Wale Ogunleye. Ok.

A quick timeline of the Kelis/ Nas demise:

Rapper Kelis filed for a divorce from husband Nas in April of 2009, citing irreconcilable differences. On July 23rd, she was awarded around $40,000 a month from Nas for spousal and child support along with the mortgage for their Los Angeles home. Kelis, who gave birth to the couple's son on July 22nd, was also awarded funds for the "baby's nurse, prenatal expenses and medical insurance."5 In December, 2009, Nas was ordered to increase monthly support to $51,101, but he will no longer have to pay for the monthly expenses of their Los Angeles home, where Kelis has been living with the couple's son.6

So Kelis’ son is eight months old and it appears the couple’s divorce was final in December, four months ago.

The commenters went in on Kelis. I mean, innnnn.

“No sense in letting the cooch heal up after popping out someone else’s baby….”

“Her child ain’t even a year old and she already in a open public relationship…she ain’t even let the ink dry on the divorce documents and she already onto the next!”

“These females don’t waste no time jumping to the next guy. That’s why they usually go from one failed relationship to another. Especially when you have a kid, a new baby at that…you need to slow down.”

Not so many felt the way I do, which is when it’s over. It’s over. Do what you want… the next day. Hell, that afternoon.  I’d rather see a woman move on quickly than dwell on forever, say like Mashonda (note: I respected her fighting for her marriage, but when it was clear he wasn’t coming back, it just seemed sad.)

The reaction in support of Kelis, who is divorced, moving on:

“Men have a new chick in their bed as soon as they pull out of the driveway with their car/van/ moving truck full of their ish. Most men dont wait.”

“So, as long as the Kelis is handling her business & that baby is taken care of there is NOTHING wrong with her dating.

“It is very hard to adjust after being married (u are used to sex on the regular, used to companionship, etc). It is a natural response for u to miss that & to want to have it again.

“Ppl are wrong when they’re separated for dating, when they are divorced they are still wrong. So how long is enough time since these bible thumping bloggers make up the rules of how other grown ppl should live their lives?”

How’s it okay for still married Shaunie to move on, but not divorced Kelis?  Is it because Kelis had a kid eight months ago? Or because it’s believed that she wrecked her marriage and then took Nas to the bank?

And back to the original question, how soon is too soon to move on, anyway? Should you have to wait for the divorce to be final? Should you wait six months before getting back into “the game” again?

What say you, Bellionaires?  What say, you?

Entitlement

Main Entry: en·ti·tle·ment Pronunciation: \-ˈtī-t^əl-mənt\

Function: noun

Date: 1942

1 a : the state or condition of being entitled : right b : a right to benefits specified especially by law or contract
2 : a government program providing benefits to members of a specified group; also : funds supporting or distributed by such a program
3 : belief that one is deserving of or entitled to certain privileges

I was reading through the comments last night and I stumbled upon this little gem from Miss Understood

We get to believing that our knowledge and financials status entitle us to certain things… But it's a shame how, as black women, we've come to sacrifice such values because of what we feel our accomplishments entitle us to.

Her quote got me to thinking. Years ago, I mean back in high school, I dated this guy who’s father was a preacher. My dude’s Daddy was kind of a big deal back home. My mother, the daughter of a minister, was practically overjoyed I was dating him. I think she took some sort of social stock in the idea.

Anyway, ol boy who shall remain nameless (whenever I mention someone, they pop up in my life again), invited me to come to the family church on Sunday morning. I don’t remember much other than being nervous and this one line that his father dropped from the pulpit

You don’t want what you deserve.*

WANT TO READ MORE BELLE? STAY TUNED FOR MY BOOK IN JUNE 2011: A BELLE IN BROOKLYN: ADVICE FOR LIVING YOUR SINGLE LIFE & ENJOYING MR. RIGHT NOW (ATRIA)

The Big Payback

Surely, you've heard this story. When will dudes learn? From the New York Post:

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned— and then there's this lady.

A fuming mistress catapulted retribution into a new orbit by plastering the country with billboards that show her nuzzling a married New York business honcho and adviser to President Obama, sources said.

The spurned squeeze, YaVaughnie Wilkins, [41] went nuclear after she learned that Charles E. Phillips, [50] — president of tech conglomerate Oracle and a member of Obama's Economic Recovery Advisory Board— reconciled with his wife despite his lengthy [8.5 years] affair with Wilkins.

Three signs have popped up in the city, as well as one in Atlanta and one in San Francisco— where Wilkins lives, Phillips owns a home and Oracle's world headquarters are located.

The very public humiliation campaign may have cost Wilkins upward of $250,000, at an estimated $50,000 a pop.

Court records show that Phillips' wife, Karen, filed for divorce in February 2008, but no action has been taken on the filing since that year. The couple recently made up, a source said.

"I had an 8½-year serious relationship with YaVaughnie Wilkins," Charles Phillips said through a spokesman. "The relationship with Ms. Wilkins has since ended, and we both wish each other well."

Read more HERE.

Is this nuts? Or totally brilliant?

There’s the nuts camp.  From a writer who occasionally guests here:

This story doesn't make women look good at all. Geez, I'm embarrassed to have a twat right now. A married man convinced a chick that he was divorced, used his wife for corporate imaging, purchases and furnishes a house for the naive mistress (who for whatever reason didn't get her name on the mortgage even after the SATC movie), doesn't marry her (well because he can't...but she doesn't know that) for eight years, leaves his girlfriend once his wife files for divorce, gets his wife to take him back, and has his ex so strung out that after leaving her homeless she's wasting money advertising their business on billboards in multiple cities and on a websites.

Women are looking real jacked up in this story...real real jacked up. And dude, dude is kinda looking like a superhero - a dick yes, but also a superhero.

And then she added:

This is not a good man. Every woman reading this story knows that. This is too much time wasted on an ain't shit dude.

Some people can't maneuver life without letting their heart lead. I ain't that person. I don't know that struggle...

And then there’s me, who thinks this is totally brilliant. I know, I know, "Living well is the best revenge." But it doesn't have to be the only one. Matters like this? I think need more addressing.*

what? he doesn't look like a superhero. he looks like a messy, trifling mofo who violently deceived women who trusted him— his wife, the mother of his child. AND his girlfriend of EIGHT YEARS.

what kind of nasty, skanky, low level whore of a so-called man does that ish?

i think more than anything this speaks to the perceived sad state of affairs that BW have when it comes to BM options that anybody would consider a fuss over this fool.

i get where chick is coming from. "oh, you will not leave me high and dry and go back to your comfy life. if i suffer, you suffer."

i am the wrong chick to do dirty. leave me? fine. but don't do me dirty. I'm calling [Penelope] and scheming on a big payback. eff that.

And then I added:

my only question: where'd the money come from? if she's got it to spare because he tricked off on her before he bounced, then I'm on board. in fact, high f*cking five!

if she went into debt or will be broke in 5 years, I'm giving her sideeye.

at least she didn't kill him.

when will dudes learn to stop playing with women's feelings? i don't feel sorry for this f*ck AT ALL

this chick's in her early 40s, which means when they met, she was a single BW in her mid-30s. she met a great dude, or so she thought. just spent the last 8.5 years with a dude who broke up with her not b/c they grew apart, but b/c he was married all this time? no kids, no man, no home, and he's gonna discard her and go back to his wife?

he is so, so, so lucky he's not dead. God spared him.

Discuss.

EDIT: 

I think this may shed some more light on the story. More information via CNN

Wilkins declined to speak directly to the media, instead fielding requests through her cousin Misha Davila, who told CNN the Web site was created as a gift from Wilkins for Phillips' 50th birthday.

The billboards were an attempt by Wilkins to reclaim her version of her relationship with Phillips among friends and family -- not an act of revenge, Davila said.

By Friday, at least one New York billboard had been removed and the Web site was no longer active. The status of similar billboards in San Francisco was unclear. Two ads in Atlanta have also been removed, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported Friday.

Davila said Wilkins refuses to be cast as the "other woman."

According to Davila, Wilkins had been under the impression that Phillips' divorce was finalized in 2003.

"Their relationship was always very public and open. He went to family events, she has traveled with him," Davila said.

But late last summer, Davila said, Wilkins received an anonymous e-mail tip about Phillips' marital status. Hiring a private investigator, she learned that Phillips was still married. She ended her relationship with him in October 2009.

*it's important to note that the "mistress" believed that he divorced his wife back in 2003. She believed herself to be his girlfriend.

Empire State of Mind, Fin

Two weeks later I had a day or so to finish packing and grab any last minute neccesities when I got back from LA and Hawaii Friday morning. It worked in my favor that I'd never really unpacked and I didn't have much stuff by way of furniture— a bedroom set. That's it.

I called Peter that afternoon to ask him to ride out to Ikea with me. Maybe I could pick up a futon so I'd have something to sit on in the living room other than the floor.

He'd been understanding, almost like he'd seen it coming when I told him I was moving to New York. After I'd received the job offer, I'd told him I was going north. I'd left out that it would be for good. That was something he deserved to hear face to face.

When I told him the night I came back from Up Top, without missing a beat, he said, "Congratulations," then asked me I had everything I needed to begin a new life. I'd run down a list of what I didn't have—a couch being at the top of the list— and he said he'd take off work and drive way out (like an hour away) with me to get one.

Told you he was a catch.

I drove out to his house, which was on the way to Virginia, and hopped into his truck (an old school man, he won't ride shotgun with a woman the behind the wheel.) When we get to the store, he tests all the couches with me. I tease that I'll have to pick out one long enough for him to sleep on when he comes up.

"Oh yeah?" he asks, his blue eyes lighting up.

I melt a little. "Oh, yeah," I shoot back. It was a confirmation. Not a question. Me leaving isn't goodbye, it's "see you later."

I actually don't get a couch I'm picky and nothing says, “Buy me. Take me home." He drives me back to his house to get my car with an offer to come by and help me pack. I decline because there really isn’t much to do.

We say goodbye like we'll see each other the next day. No long drawn out, clinging hug. Not even a kiss.

I drove home, changed clothes, and hit the happy hour at Dream with Ace. I couldn't think of a better way to say goodbye to the city than to do one of the few things that gave me joy while I was there. Usually we were there, by 8, home tucked in our beds shortly till midnight.  That night? We stayed till the lights came on.

Saturday

I ran to Sears with my mother for an air conditioner (get the biggest one you can. This is not something to skimp on), then we hit Target for a microwave (I couldn't cook anything but spaghetti at the time. This was my way of making sure I didn't starve) and some other random stuff my mother insisted I would need to begin my adult life. What we didn't buy, my mother turned over. She gave up a couple pots and a skillet in case I ever had the inclination to learn to "hot the pot." I had dishes, glasses and cutlery from my grad school apartment.

I rode home from Target in the passenger seat looking out the window. I was seeing the grassy knolls, blue skies, all the luxury cars driven by Black people who got them the legal way. Years later, I would realize growing up around success stories would shape my outlook in ways I'd never realized. My understanding of Black was hard-working and home-owning and married, which is probably why so many stereotypes about Black being trifling and bad roll of me. I still see what I grew up with as my reality.

I looked too at the big brick houses, the winding roads I could drive with my eyes closed or probably over the legal limit (speed and alcohol) and never crash. I was looking at all that and thinking about New York. I didn't have a single pang or second thought about leaving Maryland.

If anything, I was antsy to get out, but I had the decency not to bounce off the walls about it though. My parents’ stunts while I was in New York a couple weeks back had let me know not to rock the boat further. This was something they were going along with because I was hell bent on going with or without their help. A woman, even a young one, with an unshakable will (and her own money), is a tough thing to battle. You can fight, but you'll both end up with scars (cue Lauryn Hill.)

When the back off the pickup was loaded that night— and it's a strange thing to see your life's entire possessions on the back of one truck— there was nothing else left to do but sleep since we were set to leave at daybreak the following morning.

I was too wired, even though I hadn't had a decent sleep after the 10 hour trek back East from Hawaii.

I called Peter.

Forty minutes later I was sitting in his parents' basement.

I think we watched a movie. All I really remember was sitting on the couch and nestling into his nook, which was built Ford tough. I feel asleep on him.

He knew I liked to leave his parents home at midnight (lest I be the harlot who stayed too long with their son), but he didn't wake me till 4:30 AM. I guess he fell asleep too.

"I gotta go home," I said, tapping his chest when I finally stirred. "I got a long day ahead of me."

I didn't move from him though. Yesterday's goodbye wasn't hard. Maybe I was hyped up on adrenaline, thinking about what I was going to instead of what I was leaving behind. It must have been that. Cause this here? Suddenly, the idea of leaving him hurt. My chest ached.

I'd said when I'd been forced home from New York seven months earlier that I wasn't trying to date anyone. When I got that call for a job to go back to The City, I didn't want anyone to make me think twice about staying in the DMV. I knew I was going to New York. No man, not even one as great as Peter would get in the way of my dreams.

But there on that couch, I had the presence of mind to know exactly what I was giving up in pursuit of professional happiness. It could be a long, long time before I met someone who compared to Peter Francis.

Am I making the right choice?

I'd read Waiting to Exhale before I was a teenager, and Mama before that. I'd sat in on enough "ain't shit men" conversations and dealt with enough duds to know that even though good men existed, they could be hard to come by.

I looked up at him and found him looking at me; I can't tell you what his face was saying because I couldn't figure it out then or in retrospect.

"It's time for me to go," I say, finally leaning off him. I realized it wasn't going to get easier as the night faded into daybreak.

He walked me to the top of the stairs and for the first time ever, we're across from each other fumbling for words in his people's kitchen.

Suddenly, he just grabs me and kisses me. To hell with all that respectful gentleman stuff. Finally.

But there's no chemistry. I tell myself, lie really, that we wouldn't have worked even if I stayed. It's the only thing that will get me in my car and to my house and back to New York without perpetually wondering "what if? What if? What if?"

He walks me to my car, tells me to take care of myself in New York, drive safe, and call when I get home, which I do.

My parents and I (and my Dad's friend) get on the road in two separate cars shortly after 6AM. I'm asleep before we hit 95 North.

I wake up four hours later somewhere in North New Jersey. It's at the point ten minutes from the Holland tunnel where you're coming down from this pinnacle and can see all of Manhattan looking like the island it is. It's a beautiful, impressive, stunning view... Like something out of a fairytale. Too real and beautiful and full of wonder and possibilities to be true.

Manhattan looks like magic. But I'm trying to see Brooklyn. I take it in, and go back to sleep.

Thirty or so minutes later, I wake up when the car engine stops. I look out the window and up at the green and white townhouse that looks like nothing to write home about, but is the place I'll eventually call home. (On holidays when people from DC ask me if I'm home for say, Christmas, I will respond, "no, I'm in MD.")

My mother helps me scrub down the apartment, especially the bathroom and the kitchen, while my father and his friend set up the bedroom since that's all there is to put together.

By 5PM, we're done and my parents and their friend have to get on the road. They have work tomorrow, so do I. My first job in New York.

There are no tears with goodbye on either side. It's quick and easy, other than my father's demand that I take care of myself and that I'll call if I need anything. Anything.

When they leave, I run to the bodega on the corner for food. I’ve been so busy today that I didn’t remember to eat. I buy a 6-pack of champagne kola, canned macaroni and cheese that I can heat in the microwave, and two loosies,*** one of which I tuck behind my ear.

Back at the apartment, I close the door behind me, put on both locks, barricading myself inside. I eat standing at the counter. Then I then get busy, putting sheets on my bed, unpacking boxes of pictures and setting them up on the mantel in my bedroom. I unpack my clothes and arrange them by color and type in my closets.

By 1AM, I’m exhausted, but it’s then, when I’ve plopped myself down in the middle of the living room floor, that the magnitude of what I’ve done hits me. I've moved to a new city today. I start a new job I the morning. I forgot to buy a shower curtain, so a proper shower is impossible. There are no curtains on the windows so anyone who drives by can see all my business. I’ve ventured out to build a new life, but I’m not quite prepared.

If I’m honest, I’m scared. I wanted this. Prayed my heart out on my parents’ back steps begging God for it. It’s here, but I’m still afraid of what comes next.

I breathe deep to choke back the panic, then rise and head down to the front steps to smoke my Newport, my crutch.

I pull the cigarette from behind my ear, and light, then inhale. I sit on the concrete steps on the hot August night, looking out onto the street. I make a list of all the things I need like a shower curtain and real food and blinds in the bedroom. I envision the home I'd like to create upstairs, the colors I'll add to the wall. Red in the office, because I liked the one wall in Big's apartment on SATC. Tiffany Box Blue in the living room because it's my favorite color (at the time.)

I wonder about Mr. Ex and if he’ll answer when I call, if he'll introduce me to Brooklyn the same way he showed me Manhattan.

I think about if I blew my chance at being a wife when I think about Peter.

I contemplate the job I’ll start tomorrow and how long I’ll have to stay there before I can pursue what I came to New York to do.

I have so many questions and so few answers.

I pull, then hold, then exhale.

At least I'll figure out what comes next here. 

If I can make it here

I can make it anywhere

That's what they say

Seeing my face in lights

Or my name in marquees

Found down on Broadway

Even if it ain't all it seems

I got a pocketful of dreams

Baby, I'm [in] New York

Concrete jungle where dreams are made of

There's nothing you can't do

Now you're in New York

These streets will make you feel brand new

Big lights will inspire you

Let's hear it for New York, New York

New York

-Alicia Keys. Empire State of Mind, Part 2

Fin

Empire State of Mind, Part VII

It’s baa-acccck! We’ve had nearly a month long break from Empire State of Mind. Check out the last installment HERE. Ok. Here we go.

The next apartment was my last shot. Literally. I'd seen every place on my list. It was in Park Slope. I'd never been there, but my grad school roommate (who stole my barstools from our apartment), a Harlem native who hated Brooklyn, had talked about the Slope as the only place worth living in "that" borough.

I got lost looking for the realtor's place. But in my search, I'd stumbled onto 7th avenue, a treasure trove of restaurants, shopping, coffee houses, and a New York Sports Club (ie a gym.) The streets were lined with beautiful, wide brownstones perched on streets with leafy trees (cue A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith.) I immediately understood the hype over Park Slope and began picturing myself living in one of those brownstones. I'd sit by the window and create art on my laptop while playing Miles Davis on Sunday afternoons like some character out of a Spike Lee movie.

When I finally found the realtor, he was cranky and short with me. He said he only had one apartment in my range on his to-show list.

He gave the location and rattled off some details. It was 3 blocks from the subway and that subway was across the street from Prospect Park and a movie theatre. If I walked 2-5 blocks in almost any direction, I would be in the midst of lots of things to do. Location, location, location, he said, was the only thing that mattered in this city.

I immediately wondered how bad the apartment was.

As we walked, I saw a laundromat and a Chinese food takeout on the corner. I deduced this was convenient for late night food runs and getting clothes washed since I already knew there was no washer/dryer combo in the building.

We walked up to a townhouse. It wasn't like the big spacious brownstones I'd seen earlier. It was green and white with siding that had seen better days, but not its last.

The interior was... interesting.* To say, the floors and steps needed some work would be an understatement. But everything was clean and there were there were two doors and three locks, lots of security, to get into the building.

The actual apartment was... not bad. I never would have lived in an apartment like this in the Old Country, where A/Cs, new appliances and plush carpet were basic living. But in comparison to what I'd seen in NYC that day? It was above average. And if nothing else, it was on the top floor—check— so no one would ever walk around above me.

The bathroom was the size of a broom closet. Literally. If someone held open the front door, they could trap me in there because of the way it was positioned. The kitchen was small and renovated with counter tops that looked expensive. (I immediately thought about the bar stools that my grad school roommate stole. I've never gotten over that.) I liked that there was a "window" opening from the kitchen to the living room just like at my parents house. Speaking of the living room… It was tiny, and narrow with a powerful ceiling fan. Not quite central air, but better than nothing. And it had two sets of mirrored walls. Not what I would have done with the place, but still a nice touch.

There was another room too, big enough for... an office. I thought back to the luxury two bedroom in Greenbelt for 1k where I’d been planning to make the second bedroom my work station. Life is funny.

I knew then I'd take the apartment.

The office also had four deep closets, which as a fashionista, I appreciated too. I stood there wondering what this room had been before it was cut up to make "my" apartment. I giggled to myself. My own place? I thought it really hit me. So I  giggled again.

The "office" led into the bedroom, which was massive. HUGE-NORMOUS, and not just by New York standards. It has a fireplace and mantel. I figured I'd put my pics of Ace, Tariq and maybe even Blue Eyes there. **

After my tour, I met the owner. A gentleman in his late 50s  who lived on the bottom level with his wife, daughter, and their granddaughter. They were Puerto Rican, like most of the ungentrified block. I have no idea what he did for a living, but his wife and daughter were nurses and the kid was well-mannered. Good sign, especially the latter. You can tell a lot about people by how their toddlers behave.

"I'll take it," I told the realtor.

Of course, there was the matter of money. Straight out of college, I had the benefit of credit, since my mother had the brilliant idea to get me a card when I was 16. Amazingly, I never went wild with it. (I still have "excellent" credit.) But as a first-time renter with no job history to speak of (internships don’t count), I needed a co-signer, ie my parents. I'd had the presence of mind to bring my offer letter stating my salary and my parents' pay stubs with me, so I was approved pretty quick. But there was still the issue of the out of state bank account and getting the money in the right hands. I couldn't just write a check for the first, security, and broker's fee (10% of the first year's rent). I had to get a money order from my home bank (there was no Bank of America in NYC in fall 2002) or have the money wired to the realtor. Great. (This shouldn't be a problem for most of you by now as you can just transfer it online between banks.)

For the continued peace of my relationship with my parents, I will omit the unpretty details of what comes next. Maybe I'll tell it in a book someday. It involves some ugly acts (note the plural) to stop me from moving to New York. I still get pissed when I think about it and I don't want to publicly or privately dredge up old ish.

Let's say it was a definitive turning point in my understanding of life and I because of it, I encourage anyone who moves anywhere without the full support of their family to 1) travel with their routing code and bank account number so they don't have to deal with any drama; 2) get a studio she can afford so she doesn't need help from back home; and 3) when possible, have your own. It's worth the sacrifice to save your long-term sanity.

Alas, what should have been a done deal that day was done the next day.

I returned to Maryland on Sunday with a year-long lease on a $1100 per month non-luxury apartment in my name, I wondered how Peter would react when I told him I was heading North. For good. And because I was leaving for a two-week vacation the next day, we’d only have one day to say goodbye.

I felt excited and like sh!t all at the same time.

*Months later, I would have one of my girls over to watch SATC re-runs on a lazy Saturday and she would enter the building for the first time, look at the steps and carpet and assess, "oh, it's under renovation!" Um, it wasn't.

**"Eventually" my mother would visit the apartment and declare it a "dump" because the bedroom floors sloped, but I barely noticed even after living there two years.

Why I Now Hate Nightline

If I could, I would climb under a rock. That's the only logical way I can think of to avoid the onslaught of articles, primetime TV segments, books, and countless blog discussions lamenting "The Black Man Shortage."  (TBMS)TBMS is something like the black girl equivalent of those end of the world movies that come trotting out every three-day weekend to thrill us with CGI effects, remind us of the importance of family, and most importantly, churn out hundred million dollar returns for a big studio.  Whenever anyone in media needs some sort of ratings bonanza or send their website's comments section into a frenzy, they-- the most recent being Nightline-- trot out a story about TBMS, a horrific tale of no love and lots of loss that depicts a single Black woman from [insert any urban center here] clinging to a half-empty apple martini, a Louis Vuitton Damier Speedy or a perfectly-coiffed girlfriends.

I watched the Nightline segment on single Black women on YouTube the day after it aired (I was trying to avoid it, but my Belleberry inbox blew up with emails titled "Have you seen this?")  I yawned my way through all the stats that I've heard so often they run through my head like a CNN ticker:

Read more HERE:

Empire State of Mind, VI

I left for New York the next night. Mr. Ex, who I called on my way to share the good news, picked me up from Penn Station. He took me to dinner. Now that I was coming back, it was nothing had changed. But I wondered where he'd been the last time I was here. What— or better who— had him so busy that he could barely make time for me that week. He seemed to have a severe case of out of sight, out of mind. But I guess that worked in my favor now that I was back in proverbial sight.

He dropped me off at my friend's apartment in Harlem-- even though he didn't want to. When we pulled up, there were a group of sketchy guys hanging out on her stoop smoking.

"You want me to leave you here?" he asked incredulously. I think it was a rhetorical question.

As long as I got inside, I'd be fine. What other choice did I have really?

"You wanna stay with me?" he asked unexpectedly.

I looked at him sideways. Really? I wasn't expecting the offer, but I was glad he threw it out there.

"No, I'm good," I lied. For sure safety and peace of mind—-and um, other things— I wouldn't have minded. But he lived too far uptown to get to anywhere conveniently.

I needed convenience. I'd spent the morning before I left looking at Village Voice.com* listings for available apartments and realty websites. I'd called a bunch of realtors— not the most cost-effective way to find a place to live, but I only had three days— in Harlem and Brooklyn and made appointments to see places. I had a list of about 20. One of them had to work out I figured.

I popped my door. He told me to hold off and asked me to call my girl to come down while he parked. I did, and after he found a spot for his car, he grabbed my bag and my sleeping bag (I'd bought it that morning when I found out my girl from college had a one bedroom and no couch, so I'd be on the floor.) He walked me (shook) and her (unfazed) past the group of sketchy looking guys on the stoop and back to her apartment.

I don't remember much about the building… other than it was filthy. There was dirt caked in the grooves of the tiles and I wondered when was the last time it had been washed. If ever. There was an abandoned black skillet on the foyer floor. I  was scared to touch the walls.

When we got to my friend's door, she left us in the hall to say goodbye and Mr. Ex asked again. "You sure, D?"

I wasn't, but I nodded. He made me promise to call if I needed anything, anything at all.

Her apartment was bare, but clean. I didn't expect anything less as I'd live with her for a few months back in school. She had the essentials, sorta. I'm from the suburbs—sunlight is a basic necessity, not a luxury. The window in her bedroom faced a brick wall. It was also August in NYC and she had no A/C (another necessity that NYC thinks is a luxury.)

I had a budget in mind for what I'd pay for rent-- approximately $850 for a one bedroom. That was about what something luxurious back home would be, so I figured I could get something decent, something Carrie Bradshaw-ish, in Brookyln or Harlem for that price.

I asked my girl how much she paid for the space  after I got settled on her floor.

"It's pretty good for $750," she deduced.

If this was what $750 looked like, this was not an option. I added another $400 to my monthly budget and decided to work two jobs to live "decently."

The next day, I headed out in search of a home. The first stop was a third floor walk up off of 125th street. I walked in the brownstone, saw the torn up tiles and steps in bad need of repair and a cleaning, and walked right back out without seeing the space. It was $900 for a place that looked like, at least from the entrance, it should have been condemned.

I headed to Brooklyn. I'd had a work-study in grad school at a high school in Clinton Hill. I remembered thinking what a great place it was, so I headed over there. I saw some really cute oversized boxes that they called apartments.

I left and headed to Fort Greene and saw three more places. The first was across from the park. I knew it was out of my price range, but I wanted to see what $1500 would garner versus $1100 to $1200 I’d been seeing. $1500 was a slightly bigger box, a rectangle instead of the square. The price was so high because of the balcony, the agent said. Balcony?

He opened a door that led to a fire escape. It was 3x3, tops, and it had a guardrail. It overlooked the park.  If I bought  a mini-grill, I could sit it, and maybe me, out there.

"Nice, huh?" The agent offered. I shook my head and asked to see another spot.

Next up was a studio, spanking brand new. Second floor. Plenty of sun, no tub, just a shower. I really wanted a one bedroom, but this was adorable. I could climb out the window to lay on the roof in the summer. It was within the original budget and there was a train nearby and a park across the street. I was walking distance from Macy’s. (Brooklyn used to have two.)

Was it this easy??

Nope.

An organ started up, then the chorus came in. It was like the Mississippi mass choir was holding rehearsal in my living room. I could sing along with the soprano soloist word for word.

I headed out to Bed Sty and found a quaint brownstone studio. It was bare and basic, but the building had been scrubbed spotless. When the landlady let me in, I was knocked in the face by the heat.

"The air's not on?" I asked. I don't know how I hadn't noticed before. Maybe the windows were open in the other places???

She looked at me curiously. "Uh, the window unit will go right there." I thought my girl's building was shoddy because it didn't have central air. Turns out that was just unheard of, even in some of the best places in Manhattan (like my grad school.)

It was small, but workable— if I didn't bring my bedroom furniture. I had a queen size bed and a matching five-piece furniture set. It would never fit here. Maybe I'd buy a twin with the money I was saving on the place. It was only $650.

$650? I thought about that. Something must be wrong.

"You got a lot of folks sitting on the stoop?" I asked her. That was a big concern for me. I didn’t like being harassed in the street as I walked by, much less as I tried to enter my own home. The guys standing outside my girl’s building had really rattled me. I’d never tell him, but I was glad— real glad— Mr. Ex was there.

"Nope. I don't allow that on my property."

I noted that. Black landlady and owner. It I had “throw money away” paying rent, then it might as well be to a Black person.

I'd walked a little bit to get here. Did I want to take that trek everyday? "That C train the closest stop?"

She shook her head. "3s closer."

Hmm. I looked around again, looking for that something I was missing, but couldn’t put my finger on.

The closet was small, but I'd get a trunk or that clothing rack they have at stores.

I looked over the door. Two good locks to keep trouble out, or in, depending on your perspective.

I didn’t bother looking for a dishwasher. I’d already figured out that, like carpet, was a luxury only afforded to a few.

“Who else lives in the building?” I asked.

“All working folks. Pretty quiet like this during the day. Never gets too rowdy at night.”

“Lot of kids?”

“One. She’s downstairs.”

I was on the second floor, good by my mother’s rules (“You don’t live on the ground floor. Those are always the first people to get robbed,” she’d said.) Bad by my father’s rules (you only want to live on the top floor. You will go crazy with people walking around on top of you.”)

I shrugged. A kid running around was the least of my worries. It was cute, convenient, cheap, and close to the train. Oh, and seemingly quiet and safe. You can’t ask for much more.

I was about to say, “I'll take it, when she said, "let me show you the bathroom." She went out into the hall.

Huh?

She walked to the end of the corridor and opened a door. As she was showing me, she was saying that it was convenient and I’d only share it with another woman and a man who lived at whatever door she was pointing to. She cleaned it once a week. The rest of the time was on whatever schedule the three of us worked out.

Oh hell no.

I thanked her kindly and left.

It was then that I realized the hardest part about New York wasn’t getting here; it was living here.

*If I were to search now, I’d go through ardorny.com. They have pictures of the apartments so you know about what you’re getting before you get there.

Empire State of Mind, V

I had another bad run-in with New York. After I got my feelings hurt when The Source didn't call, I went back a couple weeks later... and spent the whole week by myself. Everyone, including Mr. Ex, was too busy for lunch or dinner or drinks. Even when I stopped by Oneworld, the energy was more like "you again?" than "welcome back, D!" By happentance, I landed a job interview with the PR department of a government agency during my visit. The call came from one of the hundreds of places I'd sent my resume to by that time (it was the only place that ever called back.)

I interviewed with the head of a government agency. She was brash, socially inept, and rude. I was turned off within the first minute. She seemed as bored and unimpressed with me as I was with her. I remember thinking, "this is nothing I'd leave People for." My undying obsession with all things and anything New York was fading.

The interviewer asked uncommon interview questions like ‘where else have you applied to work? And when I dodged the answer by giving her types of industries, she tried to make me get specific. Then she asked me, "if you went to school for journalism, and you're a writer in DC, why would you leave that to come here and do this?" There was a point when I would have said, "because it's New York!" But what I thought was " I don't know why." I guess I took too long to answer because she said, "you should think about that." Then she summarily dismissed me.

I knew I wasn't getting the job, but I sent a thank you note the next day just because it was the right thing to do.

After the disaster trip Up Top, I was starting to think that maybe New York wasn't for me after all. Maybe I was a girl from the suburbs who watched too much Sex and the City and too many Spike Lee movies. I'd always felt like I was supposed to be one of the lucky ones who made it out of MD because I was "so different" from the rest. Maybe I was nothing special. I'd been dreaming about this better life I could create if I could just get out of DC, but maybe I needed more fantasy than reality.

Reality was that everyone that had mattered to me personally in New York had moved on. To go back would be like starting from scratch. I had a good life going for me right where I was. My friends were all here. (Sabby, Ace and Erica threw me a surprise 23rd birthday party at Dream and we popped bottles in VIP all night. I'm smiling so big in the pictures that my eyes are slits.) Through People, I'd built up a nice little set of connections in the city. My family was here, I had a car. I had Peter...

More and more, I'd been thinking of taking my little nest egg and getting an apartment. On the rare occasions I wasn't working or clubbing, I hung out at with friends from college and they all had dope apartments— luxurious in comparison to anything I'd ever seen in New York. I was starting to feel silly living out of boxes and still with my parents in my childhood bedroom at 23. Maybe it was time to finally grow up.

I said as much to my parents one Saturday afternoon and they seemed relieved. My Dad piled us all in the car 20 minutes later to go look at apartments. No time like the present to make the new dream come true.

My new outlook wasn't a total compromise, I rationalized. I was still a writer. I’d been playing around with the idea of staying at People for awhile and seeing where it went. Maybe I could parlay it into a gig in the Style or Entertainment section at The Washington Post someday? I mean, that would be an all right career, right?

I quit the job I was working just for the money a week shy of getting health insurance. I kept working forPeople full-time, pulling 10-12 hour days 5 days a week to make up the difference. I landed a few bylines in the magazine and on the site. A major coup for me.

I stopped sending out resumes and cover letters. I stopped hording my money and only spending it on "necessities." (I'd developed the insane habit of using extra money to go to Costco or Wal-mart to buy supplies that I would need when I returned to New York: MULTIPLE extra large rolls of toilet paper of paper towels. Industrial size bottles of Dove soap. Pantene shampoo and conditioner. Family-size bottles of ALL detergent and Downy fabric softener, etc.) I booked three vacations in a month— Hawaii, LA, and Miami. I unpacked a new box of clothes. I went to Georgetown and shopped.

By August, I'd narrowed down my apartment search to a building in Greenbelt, not far from where I'd gone to undergrad. Everything was brand spanking new. Lots of space, A/C, plush carpet— the basics in MD. I was debating a two bedroom because I wanted an office. The rent was still under 1k. My parents were positively thrilled about the idea.

Thursday

I'd taken the morning off from writing and was headed to the gym for a much-needed run when I got a call from the People DC Bureau Chief inviting me to lunch at a fancy downtown restaurant later that week.

A couple days later, I was sitting across from her and a woman she introduced as her deputy editor.  I'd seen the lady around at parties, but had never been introduced to her and she'd never introduced herself to me. She knew who I was; I didn't know who she was. Turns out, she'd been singing my praises to the BC. The woman nodded profusely as the BC told me over the bread basket as that I could really make something of myself if I could get to New York. She said it like it was a fact instead of opinion.

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. I didn't want to go to New York anymore. Actually. That's what I was telling people. The  truth was, I was tired of the rejection. It was taking a toll on myself esteem. It had been months and it was seeming harder and harder to get back and easier and easier to stay. I was tired of running on an incline. And too, I was tired of telling people about this big dream, and then never seeing any results. I was becoming one of those girls who was all talk and no action.

I told the BC I was wishy-washy about moving; she told me if I wanted to cover entertainment, I had to go. I would only get so far covering celebs in DC. And if I still wanted to go to New York, she would work on having me transferred. She asked me point-blank if I’d been saving money and if I had enough to pay to move if she could pull some strings. (I did.)

I’d had a lot of people look out for me in my life—mostly teachers, people who knew me. I’d barely talked to this woman about anything other than assignments. In fact, she emailed me most of the time. We didn’t really talk. Was there a catch?

“Why are you doing this?” I asked her.

She shrugged. “You told me at your interview you wanted to go back to New York. I remember what it was like to be young and have a dream. I figured it was time. You’d do well there.” It was like stating water is wet to her.

I nodded. I think I was in shock. I wasn’t getting my hopes up, but there was no sense in shooting a job down before it had officially be offered.

“Yes, if you can pull it off, I’d go,” I told her.

She nodded and flagged down the waiter for us to order.

I didn't tell anyone (maybe Ace and Tariq) about the offer. I didn't want to jinx it, or worse, speak it into reality and it not work out and everyone— Peter and my parents included— know that I tried and failed. Again.

I got my hopes up again. I said this would be the last time. If it didn't happen for me by September, I was done. I'd move on to something else.* Nine months is the birth of a kid. If I couldn't make something of my life in the time it took to produce a life, maybe I was just trying too hard at something I had no business trying for.

Three weeks came and went with no word from the BC. It was the beginning of August. I'd checked in with her twice. She assured me the ball was rolling, but it would take some time. I was getting nervous again.

I was heading out one Thursday evening to go cover some event for People just as my mother was coming in. I waited around a few minutes to shoot the *** with her as we'd only seen each other in passing due to my work schedule. I had a two week vacay coming up on Monday and had been working around the clock to get hours in.

The phone rang as I was telling her what I was up to. It had to be for her or my father since anyone who needed me called me on my cell phone. (I hadn't answered the house phone in months.)

My mother grabbed the ringing receiver from the wall. I waved and headed for the door, lest I be even later for the reception (DC loves receptions.)

"Hey," my Mom called after me as I was headed into the garage. "It's for you."  She looked as surprised as I was.

I screwed up my face, went back in the house, and took the phone.

"Hello?"

It was the an HR woman. From that government agency.  She said the head of the agency was really impressed and wanted to offer me a job. In New York. She laid out the salary and potential bonus. Was I still interested?

It was the moment I'd become too scared to hope for. I didn't think about how much I couldn't stand the woman I'd be working for, that the pay was crap, or that it the job had little, if anything, to do with writing. It was a definite and People was a maybe. I loved New York more than People after all.

"Yes," I said without even remembering to negotiate for better pay. "I'll take it."

She told me the start date, I told her that was fine without it ever really registering how soon it was.

I hung up the phone, then turned  to my Mom.

"Mommy." I didn't even shriek like I thought I would when I pictured this moment that I never thought would come so many times before. "I'm going back to New York!"

Her face fell. She recovered quickly, but not quick enough for me not to notice. "Well, don't cry," she said, and pulled me into a hug. "There's no need to cry." She sounded... weird.

I didn't even realize tears were streaming down my face.

"Well, when do you go?" she asked when I'd somewhat recovered.

I told her the date. She screwed up her face. "You're leaving for LA and Hawaii on Monday. You'll be gone for two weeks. How are you going to find an apartment? That gives you..." she paused to do do the time. "This weekend?"

I did the time as well.

****!

I called the woman back to re-negotiate. She said they needed someone immediately. If I wanted the job, I'd need to start on the previously agreed upon date. Sorry. There was nothing she could do.

I pictured her shrugging as she hung up.

****!

How the hell was I supposed to find an apartment in three days? (And no. Not going to LA or HI, my first time for the latter, was not an option.)

* One of you e-mailed me about this story, and I realized I forgot a huge turning point in my outlook. Around this time I was complaining to a good friend, Mazi, about my best days passing and how miserable I was currently. He told me that I had a choice, whether I knew it or not. Every morning, I chose to stay in DC, to get up and go to a job, stay for 8 hours, and go home. If I wanted to, I could get on a bus, go to New York and never ever come back. If NYC was where I wanted to be, I should just go, if that’s what would make me happy. Happiness, he said, was a decision, not a dream.

Those words changed my life.

A Dream Deferred 

Empire State of Mind, Part IV

The night my alma mater won the men’s basketball championship, I was in the dorms with Sabby. We drove as we could to Route 1, then ran across campus headed to the makeshift bonfire on Frat Row screaming “Fear the Turtle!” at the top of our lungs for hours. The next day at work, I had no voice, barely a whisper. As my job was in DC, and half the employed city graduated from my school, my college spirit was smiled upon. (Half the office had abandoned business attire for the day and showed up in university para) I was a team player. My supervisor was so proud in fact, that she recommended to her boss that I be made full-time (ie, get benefits just like my father wanted.) A hardcore Terp goes a long way in DC.

I’d forgotten about my voice, when my cell phone rang just before lunch. I recognized the 212 number. It was The Source. Must be Anslem calling with an assignment. I called the number back on the landline.

A woman answered. She gave her name, but I didn’t catch it. She wasn’t a receptionist.

“Hi,” I croaked. “This is [Belle.] Um… did you just call me?”

“Hello?” She sounded irritated like she thought someone was playing on her phone.

I had to patiently explain that I lost my voice. And why I was calling. When she finally got it, she was much nicer.

“Oh, okay," she said. "I wanted to know if you were still interested in the job.”

The job? Huh? I said as much.

“Yes. You sent your clips in, right? [The ENC] saw them and wanted to interview you if you’re still interested.”

It was an associate music editor position. Whoa.

I told her I could come in the following Monday and promptly e-mailed my boss to tell her I wouldn’t be in.

I called my editor friend from Oneworld, the one who used to take me around parties by the hand and introduce me. I wanted a rundown of who the woman was, what she was into, and what would impress her.

Turns out they were old friends. Before I could even ask him to put in a word, he told me he’d call over to her and sing my praises.

I promised him drinks on me when I got to New York on Monday.

Monday morning

I stayed with my girl from Pfizer. I got up 3 hours before my interview because I was too nervous to sleep. I washed and diffused my hair so it would be extra fluffy. I spent an hour on my make-up. I put on my interview/ I need to impress and feel confident dress (the red DV wrap dress that I’m wearing in my Twitter profile). I showed up 15 minutes early, fresh clips in hand.

It went… okay. I couldn’t get a real read on the ENC. But the meeting lasted an hour and I’d done my absolute best. I was witty, funny, informed. I felt like I was on. I’d studied the magazines in my closet going back many years so I could pull a reference to some random obscure story so she knew I was more than a casual reader. I studied the reviews and stories she’d written so I could mention them back to her so she’d know I did my homework. I told her about all the ideas I’d had and the ones I’d recently pitched to Anslem. I pulled out all the stops I knew.

That night, over the drinks I’d promised, I asked my editor what she’d thought of me. I knew they’d already spoken.

He shrugged. “She said you were pretty.”

I scrunched up my face. “That’s it?”

He shrugged again.

Back in DC, I waited a month for her to call. Got jumpy every time the phone rang between 10 and 6 on a weekday.

She never did.

I was working two jobs still— the main one, and People— and  freelancing for magazines back in New York. By then Black Enterprise and ESPN too. I was exhausted, but that didn’t stop me from hitting up the club every weekend. I may not have been depressed anymore, but old habits die hard.

It was during my weekend ritual that I was shaking my thang in VIP, one of those DC multi-level. mega clubs that has long since closed when my boy, Tariq, pointed out a gentleman in the corner who'd been watching me do what I do. I hadn't noticed. But I looked over, and sure enough, I was being checked out. He was fine— 6'4 easy, broad shouldered, clean cut, a bit too light for me and a wearing a blazer and jeans long before DC men dressed for the club.

Dude didn't even grin or flirt when I turned my head his way. He just stood there nodding, looking me in my eye. I looked away. But he kept staring. Every so often I'd look over and he was still watching. It was so obvious that another one of my boys noticed, and pointed it out to another one, Jamie. Funny, Jamie knew him. (As we all know, there are no more than 2 degrees of separation between all Black people who went to college.)

Jamie heads toward Lite Brite to say what's up, and I watch. While Jamie's speaking to him, Lite Brite is staring at me still. Finally he smiles at me over Jamie's shoulder. A big, broad, beautiful beam of light.

I think 'wow', but my face says, hmph.

Weirdo. I look away again.

When Jamie comes back to our group, my curiosity gets the best of me. I just have to ask, "Who's that?"

The rundown is impressive. Light-Brite played b-ball and football for [Ivy League school], has a business degree from said school, and is from [upper-middle class neighborhood.] "Good dude, good people," Jamie assesses.

Where's the ‘but?’ There was always something even back then. "That's it?" I query.

"That's it. Really good dude. I went to jr. high with him and he grew up around the corner from me. I can vouch for him."

I look up, back to where Lite Brite was standing to give him a once over again. Now I'm really curious about him.

He's gone.

I scan the room from my vantage point, looking over the crowd for a head bobbing above the others (with rare exception, DC men tend to top out around 5'9). No sign. I look over by the bar in case he's gone for a re-up. Nothing. This club has 4 levels. I'll never find him... Not that I'm really looking for him, of course.

Just then, a gentle but firm pull on my elbow turns me around.

It's Lite Brite. I'm about to get all feisty over being grabbed by a stranger until I look up into beautiful blue eyes. I immediately pipe down like he's glamoured me or something (you gotta watch True Blood to get that.)

"I want to introduce myself to you," says Lite Brite. "My name is Peter Francis." It comes out strong. Even. Bass-y. Assured, but not cocky.

He extends a hand for me to shake and he clasps it firm like this is business, not pleasure. Wowzers.

We exchange names, then after a brief chat, numbers.

Him: "Is it all right if I call you sometime? I want to hear everything you say and I can't over the music."

Me: (dumbstruck) Um, ok.

On my first date with Peter, he wears slacks to take me to a fancy restaurant and apologizes for being late because he couldn't decide on what to wear.

Him: "Sorry. I wanted to make a good impression.” [mega-watt smile for emphasis.]

Me: [Sigh.]

I asked him where he'd eat if he wasn't taking me out cause I wanted to go there. (I didn't want him to be nervous.) He took me to Ben's Chilli Bowl. I loved it.

We were both on a budget so we did Blockbuster nights, if not at his people's house, at mine. We'd go to record shops and he'd play 60s & 70s music on records for me (Ohio Players, "Sweet Sticky Thing" was his song). We'd also drive to parks, and sit on benches for hours talking about nothing and watching squirrels play.

He'd walk me to my door at the end of a date. Open my door at the beginning. When he met my mama, he introduced himself by his full name, "Peter Francis III" letting her know he came from a long line of good Black men who were responsible and proud of their sons.

And although I cuddled close enough to realize he was like made of steel, he never tried a thing. I'm an old-fashioned girl at heart and I adored him for taking it slow (that and almost any man who cares about you will tell you that when a man hangs out with you and tries nothing, he really likes you and not just um... your goods.)

Peter was a great guy, great catch from great people. Good character, great manners, family-oriented, considerate of others. You could take him to a watering hole and the White House, too.  And when you live in Maryland with no ambition to leave, he’s the type of guy you date for three years, marry at 27, and pop out a kid for before you turn 30.

Maybe that should have been my dream instead of New York.

Empire State of Mind, Part III

So there I was a couple days later, pissed at the world. I'd been gone almost 4 full months and had made no progress whatsoever reaching my goal. I didn’t even know how to reach it. Great.

I was sitting in the basement one afternoon watching TV in the dark, undoubtedly I'd just come in from a smoke. Busta's "Pass the Courvoiseur" came on the screen.

Hmmm, I wondered, did he get paid for that product endorsement?? And then I wondered, like what's hip hop's obsession with liquor? This was the time when Diddy and Jay were still shouting out references to Cristal in every other line. And then I wondered, if I'm wondering this, aren't other people too?

I went upstairs and got an issue of The Source and my laptop. I looked up the editor who I thought would be best for the idea, wrote a pitch letter with my ideas and fired it off.

Within a day or two, Anslem Samuel (ie Naked With Socks On) wrote me back, assigning me the piece.

Was it this easy??

It was the first piece I’d ever written as a writer—not "just" an intern. And it was the first time I’d written anything other than a cover letter in over three months. It was the longest time I’d gone without writing since I learned how to.

I guess I did okay for a newbie. Because when Leah Rose over at XXL called Anslem looking for new writers to do reviews and profiles, he gave her my name. Then she started calling with assignments, a profile here, a review there. Then Bonsu Thompson (yes, B that guest blogs on here sometimes) started doing the same.

I started to see the light at the end of a very long tunnel again.

I decided to get a job in DC. If for no other reason than to save up for New York. Just those small assignments, and too, the ease at which they came, made me think that maybe I was good enough to be there.

That, and I was getting bored doing nothing more fulfilling than searching the Internet for jobs and working out all the time.

I went to a temp agency and took the most mind-numbing job I could find solely because it paid the most and had free parking. I think was copy-editing mechanical textbooks or something. It was an hourly hustle and they catered lunch everyday because they didn’t want people to leave for an hour.

I abused the mailroom privileges, sending out copies of my clips to any magazine I could possibly think of writing for. (This was still when large attachments like PDFs of clips would fill up your email super quick.)

I could do an entire week’s worth of work in about an hour. So I used the dead time to call up every professor I had in grad school and every editor I’d written for and asked them to send me a quote about my work. I compiled all their glowing reviews and used it as a cover letter for my clips kinda like how DVDs and books use reviews to really sell you that the flick is worth your buy. I figured too, that the people I'd worked or written for were well-known so their names had to impress someone who would be more willing to help me. (It worked.)

I also started calling up anyone I could think of in DC who was remotely related to journalism or publishing for informational interviews. All I wanted to know was, 'how did you get your job?' 'is there anyone else I should meet to get to know more about this industry?' And ‘do you know anyone in New York who can help me get back?’

I met with a woman at BET (two years later, she would become my boss based off this interview) who liked my drive and introduced me the PR director. He was too busy to meet me, but on the strength of the recommendation, he ran off a list of names of people I could contact in New York and drop his name. One of them was the ENC of People Magazine.

So I sent that guy an email. He wrote me back, via snail mail, telling me to contact the head of People’s DC Bureau. I did and she called me in for an interview that week. I took off on my lunch hour to go see her without having a clue what I was in for. I'd planned to ask her the same questions I'd asked everyone esle. Instead, she hit me with a barrage of questions, said she liked me after about a half hour, and told me I’d do a good job working for her.

Hold up? Did she just offer me a job working for People?

She threw out a number for hourly work that was double what I was making as a temp, and told me she’d be calling soon with assignments.

Just like that, I was a stringer (loose definition, they do the legwork of stories and send the info in and someone else writes it.)

So during the day, during all my dead time, I researched assignments for People, found contacts, made up questions to ask folks and interviewed them, and at night (or on my lunch hour) I went out and covered events around the city and beyond. Somedays I hobnobbed with congressman and A-listers on Capitol Hill. Other times, I drove out to mansions in VA for private parties at old money residences to ask some huge star a funny story about their dog or best friend. Or maybe I was at some black-tie gala schmoozing and making connects. Or maybe I was kneeling in dirt while wearing my best suit, while an award-winning scientist explained the affect of some new irrigation system that would revolutionize farming.

I realized I liked writing. But what I loved about journalism was the access, and too, the randomness. I found myself in places I never thought I’d be, talking to people I’d never imagined I would. It was… cool. That’s still the draw.

So I kept my day job and I worked my side hustle (cause I liked the dual checks.) I slept no more than 4 hours a night. And I got really skinny because even though I barely made it to the gym, I never had time to eat.

I was exhausted. I was frail. But I was writing again. And for the first time in months, I was no longer depressed.

Empire State of Mind Part II

I hate Maryland. I graduated from grad school with next to nothing—at least financially. I have some decent clips, celeb profiles and album reviews mostly. And a degree from NYU, which when working in the arts, is about the equivalent of having the latest Louie V. at Fashion Week. It practically stamps, 'artsy and articulate' on your forehead. The problem? No one gives a remote damn about “artsy” down here. If you’re not a lawyer or some sort of government contractor/ worker/ affiliate, you’re pointless.

My mother toyed with the idea of charging me rent, either to be petty or piss me off, or encourage me to get a job sooner. My father quickly kaboshed that idea. He just wants me to find a job—here, New York, anywhere, before my health insurance runs out in September.

I stay depressed through mid-January. I refuse to unpack any of my boxes, but I do manage to stay motivated enough to check every site I can think of for job openings. Every morning, I  send out my cover letter and resume— at least 5 a day, 5 days a week. Only to jobs in New York. And I go to the gym everyday. Twice a day, I run three miles to a bootleg of Lauryn Hill Unplugged. “Please God, come free my mind,” I play on repeat, begging and singing along. I cry on the treadmill. To say I am a mess would be an understatement.

I have a glimpse of “normal” every Friday and Saturday when I go out to get bent beyond recognition. At 22, that’s pretty much everyone’s goal, so I don’t look too out of sorts.  I get so wasted most nights that I literally can’t think about New York. My weekend activities quickly start to seep into the weekday.

It’s during an attempt to get wasted one Thursday— and indication that I’m getting worse— when I'm out to to dinner with Sabby (yes, that one) that I meet a guy.

Let's call that guy Pooah, since that was my nickname for him at the time. He was pouring drinks behind the bar and I noticed that he fit my quals—dark brown, wide nose, broad  shoulders, diesel arms. Sabby said he’d gone to school with us, but I don’t recognize him.

I strike up a conversation.

“Hey, are you six feet?”

He assesses me. “5’11,” he says after a long pause.

“Oh…” Not tall enough. I have a six-foot minimum. I tell him as much.

He laughs. “When I take you out, I’ll wear Timbs so I meet your requirement. Will that work?” He grins. It’s like the sun peaking through the sky on a cloudy day.

I smile. It’s the first time in a long time.

“That’ll work.”

Within 24 hours, I’ll be back at his bar. And I’ll quickly learn that I like him because he’s as dysfunctional as I am. He'd dropped out of college 3 credits shy of his degree. The university let him walk for graduation (they assumed he'd get the three credits in summer school), but didn't issue the diploma for obvious reasons. His mother had attended his big day in May, of course.  I think he’s the first in his family to “graduate.” His mom still has no clue that her son doesn't actually have a degree.

Anyway, he'd gotten a job as a bartender with the intention of raising enough money to pay for that last class. But the hours at the bar were long and the money was too good. That and he’d rather ball at our old-college gym than go to class. So he kept earning, and stacking even, and balling, and never went back.  That was about a year ago.

When he’s honest, which he usually is when I meet up with him at IHOP at 3AM when he gets off work, he feels like a complete screw-up. He lacks the real will to change his circumstance though. I feel like a failure for not being in New York. And getting back is such an overwhelming task with no money, no job, no prospects, no house… oh God, I can’t even think about it. I feel like I can’t do anything to change my circumstances either.

Anyway, Pooah and I make a great match... especially since he lets me, Ace, and Sabby drink for free at the bar every weekend. Won't even let us leave a tip.

Pooah is what finally lifts my mood. Slightly. I start doing my hair again, take it out of the ever-present bun it has been snatched into for almost a month. I actually put make-up on, and unpack more than sweatpants. I still chain-smoke on the backsteps multiple times a day, but I don't do it all day since Pooah hates the smell of smoke. I’m miles from my usual self, but some would call this progress.

Pooah and I talk constantly. I mean like obsessively. Since all I talk about is 1) how much I hate Maryland; and 2) how much I miss New York, he encourages me to just go…

A good friend, Michelle, has a healthcare internship and a two bedroom apartment on the East side. I hop an Amtrak and go stay with her, then head back to my internship at Oneworld to see if there are any stories that need writing or if anyone has a lead on jobs. I time my visits to New York around Oneworld parties (legendary) just so one of my old editors can take me by the hand and introduce me to any other editors who might offer me a job or a writing assignment.

My parents also take mercy on me a few times and put me up in a hotel in NYC. There was about a month where I stayed at a hotel for week, then my girl's spot, back to the hotel, back to my girl's. At some point, I notice that I barely consume anything beyond a casual drink and never smoke when I’m in New York. I feel invigorated, inspired. Like myself. As soon as I got on the Amtrak home, I start crying.

In March, Pooah, who has been around just long enough for me to start to adore, shows up at my house to take me to the movies.

We’re goofing around in the kitchen, when the light catches him funny.

I screw up my face. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to his neck.

He covers it with his hand. “Oh, I got scratched playing basketball.”

I’m depressed, not stupid.

I pull his arm down and he lets me, then I look at him real good in the light.

It’s a hickey. I didn’t put it there.

Back when I was in high school, I got my first and last hickey. It was an accident. A friend did it joking around. But that story doesn’t sound believable to anybody.

My godmother saw it and was livid. “When a man gets a new car, he cherishes it," she says. "He polishes it, he shines it, keeps it clean, smelling good.

"He doesn’t put dents it, let it get banged up. You treat a hooptie that way. You don’t care about it cause it’s a throwaway car. It's what you drive while you dream about something better.  You ain’t no hooptie, D.  Don’t let no man put no hickeys on you.”

I’ve never had one or given on since.

“Get out," I tell Pooha.

He tries to reason with me, but I kick him out anyway. I wasn’t mad. I just wasn’t stupid.

I see him a few times after that. My girls and I still go to his bar, but we sit at a table and pay for drinks now. He sends over free drinks, I send them back.

I smoke more than ever now— and in public, which I haven't done before. I’m more mad at myself that I’ve gotten caught up in a man instead of keeping my eye of the prize — getting back to New York— than I am he’d been sexing some chick. I wonder when he had the time. I was on the phone with the man constantly. But I guess if there's a will, there's a way.

I’ve been back home three months and I have nothing to show for it. No man, no job, no money, and no New York.

F@$%.

Empire State of Mind, Part I

This is the story of how I got to New York.  

Concrete jungle where dreams are made of

There's nothing you can’t do,

Now you're in New York!!!

These streets will make you feel brand new,

The lights will inspire you

Let's hear it for New York

New York, New York

— Empire State of Mind, Jay-Z & Alicia Keys

Back in April, I was lying in bed one morning reading New York Magazine, as is my reigning weekend ritual. The cover story was “Why People Still Want to Move to New York in Tough Times.”  It was about exactly what you’re thinking: all those random people from East Neverwhere who pile into the city annually hoping to make something of themselves and compete with the best of the best.

It was a random story, it could have been written at anytime. But this one was anchored by a new statistic that showed half of all young people in the US wanted to move to New York—-even in the recession and the subsequent collapse of the city's leading industries: media, finance, tourism, and by proxy service/nightlife.

I wasn't surprised by the stat. I'd rather struggle here than anywhere else too.

Winter 2001

The towers fell three months earlier. I'm in the last semester of grad school. The air outside the luxury downtown one bedroom apartment that I call my “dorm room” and share with a roommate still smells like crisp metal and something else I’ve never been able to put my finger on. I see Mr. Ex every weekend. Saturday night is for showing me some new part of the city I’ve never seen— Harlem, Tribeca, West Village, wherever. Sunday is for watching The Sopranos, or whatever’s on the HBO lineup. I don’t really look forward to the show as much as look forward to lying on the couch up under him.

It’s December. I graduate in about three weeks. I’m still interning at Oneworld with no prospect of a job in sight, but the ENC  and Executive Editor keep throwing me freelance work. My Managing Editor has an extra room, a large closet, really, that she says I can live in until I find a job. It’s $400 for a large hole. The LIRR traim runs right by the window and the room shakes when it does.  It’ll be tough living— a long way from PG County, a long way even from the luxury building where I’ve lived in my whole time in New York. But it’s worth it.

Three weeks later

My boxes are packed. My Dad is driving up to NYC in the morning to pick up the stuff that won’t move into the hole with me.

The phone rings. It’s the ME.

She’s so sorry. The room? One of her three roommates promised it to someone else a long time ago, and he needs it earlier than expected. There’s nothing she can do. She’s so, so, so sorry.

F*ck.

I don’t call home. I call Mr. Ex.

He’ll hop in the car, be at my place in 45.

I run to the store for a pack of Newports. And chain smoke in the window and cry until he gets there.

I’m a puffy-faced mess by the time he arrives. And the apartment’s got to smell like hell, especially to him; he hates smoke. We sit on the couch and I sit in between his legs and cry into him the whole night. He’s one of maybe three people in the world that can talk me off a ledge (Tariq and Ace are the other two), but I am inconsolable.

I’m not just leaving New York, I’m leaving him too.

This is the worst night of my life.

Around 8 AM, my father calls to say he’s outside the building. I kiss Mr. Ex goodbye a million times, then ring my Dad up. I tell my Dad then that I’ll now be apart of the precious cargo headed back to DC.

He and a friend pack up the truck. I ride in the back with my stereo system on my lap and cry the entire way home.

My father is… hurt, I think, that I’m treating moving back to Maryland, back with him and my Mom, as the worst thing that could happen to me. I can’t even muster up the ability to fake like it’s okay. I cry until I fall asleep.

I wake up on two hours later on 495 and realize this is not a nightmare. My eyes sting. I'm probably dehydrated from all this sobbing. I start sobbing all over again.  My Dad and his friend pretend not to hear me.

This, I imagine now, must have been what Randy felt like going back to the halfway house at the end of Season 4 (The Wire reference.)

This is my worst fear come true.

F*ck.

What's the Difference Between Bey, Kim, and Trina?

So I watched the “Video Phone” video yesterday.  I don’t quite yet know what a “videophone” is, but maybe that’s just a sign of me aging my way out of pop culture. I’m fine with that. And I’m not going into the Gaga vs. Beyonce debate because I think it’s clear to anyone with eyes that Gaga didn’t bring it. And while the video was a good look exposure-wise for her, artistically it was a fail.

Here’s what I do wonder though: what exactly is the difference between Bey, Lil Kim, and say, Trina? Yes, Bey sings, they rap. She can dance too and does her own beats and production whereas it’s still a big question mark if Trina and Kim even write their own lyrics. I fully acknowledge all of  Bey’s talents. But content-wise, where’s the difference? Bey’s lyrics are just as materialistic, her video and stage outfits are just as scanty, and she spreads and P-pops it just as good as  (if not more and better) than both Kim and Trina in their heyday.

So I’m confused. Is it that Bey cleans up nice for awards shows? That she comes from a two-parent home? That she’s from the ‘burbs? That she manages to be raunchy without cursing?  That she’s light-brite and generally assessed as pretty? (just throwing ideas out there.)  That she mixes her catalogue of raunch in with empowerment anthems? That she hides her raunchiest side behind an alter-ego, Sasha Fierce so it seems like it’s not really her? (Pause. You have no idea how disturbing I find it that a alleged 28 year old woman feels compelled to express her sexuality solely as a stage persona or an alter ego of said stage persona.) I’m really, really curious where the distinction lies.

And so we’re clear, this isn’t me trying to diss Bey. I’m not a hardcore Bey Bey fan, but I’ve got enough on my iPod to do a train ride to work and a three-mile run without doubling up. And though I don’t like all the content she puts out (frankly her film career is mediocre at best), I do respect a woman’s hustle and grind.  I  am, however, a hardcore Lil Kim fan (no pun) and can recite her debut album line for line. This is not me trying to bring Bey down, more like bringing Kim up, and Trina too, by extension.

I threw the question out on Twitter last night and expected to be stoned got the following thoughtful responses:

[Bey’s] no bird, but she is their patron saint! The next tour should be called "Beyonce Live: Where Chickenheads Come Home To Roost"

She has better marketing, and a good team behind her

She has a "voice" that will always get her a pass

I think Bey is a little more subtle in her lyrics than Kim/Trina. No vulgarity. But she is def suggestive.

think bc Bey has other stuff goin on, she's got fierce mgmt & she works that 'shy & so blessed' routine well in interviews. plus every1 knows the whole fam she comes from whereas kim and trina come off as hood chicks.

Actually, she does more poppin than all combined, but she also doesn't talk about f'ing "while her period on" (Trina) or blowjobs

Ok. But like how do you get away with lyrics like:

you like it when i shake it

shawty on a mission

wat yo name is

what you want me naked

if you liking this position

you can tape it

on yo video phone

and not be called a bird. Trina and Kim would be torn to bits for rapping about sex on tape, and they were hardly held up as role models. Let’s also keep in mind that 9/10 of Bey songs about men are for “soliders” ie, dudes with their pants sagging low and in white tees. Picture Wayne (who was in the "Solider"video), or better, Jay… but in his dealing days, ‘cause 9/10 when you see him now he’s in thong sandals on the beach or grown man sweaters around New York or Londontown. What kind of occupations to dudes you know have if they still wear white tees and sagging pants post-college?

Exactly.

And Bey’s just as materialistic as Kim and Trina as we can see from the “Upgrade You Lyrics”

 Audemars Piguet watch

Dimples in ya necktie

Hermes briefcase

Cartier top clips

Silk lined blazers

Diamond creamed facials

VVS cuff links

6 star pent suites

And while she may not curse, she’s just as raunchy. Recite any double entendre on “Ego” and get back to me.

Maybe it’s because she started out pretty wholesome—despite the barely-there bedazzled “costumes.”  I mean there was “Independent Women,” “Survivor,”  “Me Myself and I” (I’m just gonna overlook “Bills, Bills, Bills,” an entire song about a man picking up the tab, for the sake of my argument.)  There was also that song that I can’t remember the title to, but with lyrics, “girl, go put some clothes on, you nasty…” (Oh, the irony!)

But that’s evolved, into every other single being say... “ Freakum Dress” where women are encouraged to “spin it all around and then take it to the ground.” Or maybe we can refer to, “Ring the Alarm,” where instead of leaving a cheating lover, Bey decides to stay, referencing and recounting all the expensive and name-brand gifts she’ll be missing out on if she bounces. If that doesn’t sound like a bird anthem or the blueprint to a Kim or Trina verse or two, I don’t know what does.

Maybe it’s that she caters to the fellas. Let’s face it, a lot of backlash to Kim and Trina was because they cared too much about getting theirs. And they did it with a bravado that mirrored a man’s. Trina’s  openeing verse on “Da Baddest Bitch” lays it all out:

All eyes on your riches

No time for the little dicks

You see the bigger the dick

The bigger the bank, the bigger the Benz

The better the chance to get close to his rich friends

Same goes for Kim’s explicit expectation on “Big Momma”:

that's how many times I wanna cum, twenty-one

and another one, and another one, and another one

24 karats nigga, that's when I'm fuckin wit' the average nigga

Both of these women have a high expectation in exchange for their services— money, an orgasm, something. Neither of these women have a “do your business and be done” situation like Mister and Ceilie in The Color Purple, or say Beyonce in “Cater to You”  when she croons:

When you come home late tap me on my shoulder, I'll roll over

Baby I heard you, I'm here to serve you

If it's love you need to give it is my joy

All I want to do, is cater to you boy

Bar after bar she goes on and on about what she’s willing to do for her man (“because what she won’t “another woman is willing…”)  and never, not once, asks for anything in return.

Is that it? Men are on board with her, so women fall in line?

I really don’t get it. I mean Kim wore next to nothing on stage, and was damn near stoned. Like Amber Rose, Trina got called all manner of “sluts” and “whores” for her all –Spandex, all the time get ups. But Bey shows up to sing Ava Maria, the “Hail Mary” of Catholic songs, in a leotard and veil and it’s like *crickets” from everyone, including the Catholic church. She shows up at the European Music Awards wearing red lingerie and matching garters on stage and no one bats an eye. A few years back, she gave Terrance Howard a lap dance on the stage for the BET Awards and barely a peep from anyone.

Is Bey benefitting from our relatively high shock-value, a bar raised by the antics of Lil Kim and Trina, so that she can do exactly what they did and not inspire the same level of outrage? Or is there something more to it than that?

I’m honestly confused.

Discuss.

Belles Rules for a Fabolous Life

I promised this post forever ago. It took forever to write. Thanks for your patience:

I sat on a relationships panel for WEEN a few months back. For those of you who don't know, WEEN, or Women in Entertainment Empowerment Network, is a fabulous national organization that seeks to empower young women (and was started by four of my friends). Anyway, I walked into the "green" room to ready myself for the production and was pleasantly surprised to find a roomfull of successful, personable, and friendly Black women, many of whom I knew well, some in passing, others were familiar faces from my TV screens.

All together, their resumes read like a who's who in medicine, finance, education, media and more. I noticed that as a group they had some key characteristics in common and for those of you who write in (or just sit around and wonder),  to ask, "Belle, how do I get to be like them?" I'd like to share some totally subjective tips about how to get there.

*Be Ambitious 

It's not about not being happy with what you have, it's more about earning an "A+" out of life instead of just an "A." You reach a goal, you set new ones (note that plural.) Onward and upward is the prevailing motto.

*Surround Yourself With Ambitious People (if for no other reason than it's incredibly motivating)

You never want to be the one who's doing the nothing in a group full of people doing the something. I have a friend, Jen, who has a side hustle and a main hustle. Everytime I speak to her, she tells me about something major she just did or is thinking about doing. And the next time I see her, she's done the thing she was planning last time and is already planning something new. Ya'll know how much I do, but after I talk to her, I feel like there's always more I could be doing. I feel inspired to go home and work on something— a book, a blog, a media campaign, something!— just so I stay on point. Call it healthy competition and good motivation.

*Let Fabulous Women Light Your Path

I am blessed to work in an an entire office of beautiful, inspiring, positive Black women who show me the way personally and professionally every single day. If you aren't blessed to have that too— and it's a rare office in most places, I know— follow some fabulous women on Twitter: Abiola Abrams, Bevy Smith, Lauren Lake, June Ambrose, Marvet Britto, dream hampton, Raquel Cepeda (all women I'm met in passing, one I used to work for) and heed their lessons. The one thing they all have in common is they're always doing something that takes them a step closer to making their current dream another reality. Follow them: @bevysmith @laurenlake @raquelcepeda @juneambrose @marvetbritto @dreamhampton @abiolatv

*Do Something 

Having ideas are only half the battle, and that's only if you actually act on them. Otherwise they are daydreams. And no one ever got far in life daydreaming all day. A fabulous life doesn't fall in your lap, you have to create it. Have a vision, make baby steps for it, and when you've worked hard to open your own doors, you'll find that other people start to open them for you and beckon you through. That doesn't happen overnight, likely not till you're dang near 30 or on the "better" side of 30. Ivanka Trump, who's become a real estate success in her own right, gave great quote to a magazine when she said, 'I've found the harder I work, the luckier I get." Luck = preparation and opportunity.

*Have More Than One "Hustle"

You should have a job and a side hustle that you're at least passionate about and maybe it makes you some extra money. As Lester Freamon once told McNulty on The Wire, "the job will not save you." You should have something to rely on, emotionally, if not financially. For me, it's Belle, and all the opportunities it leads to.

*Stop Complaining About Problems & Solve Them

Everybody needs to vent, but if all you ever do is vent and complain, then you're whining. And worse, you'll never get anywhere. You want change, then make change. You need more money? Make something and sell it. Spend less. Buy something and sell it at a higher price. It's really that simple. I have a friend that got laid-off recently. She was the chick that came to parties and top-cheffed all the drinks to make 'em tasty. You know what she's doing now? Selling homemade sangria for the holiday season. Think of a void and fill it.

*Know A Little About A Lot of Things.

My godmother used to tell me this when I was a kid. It was how she defined an intelligent woman. You will always be able to connect with someone if you have a lot of information stored away. How do you get that?...

*Read Everything.

Do stuff outside of your house. Visit musuems, parks. Watch intelligent TV and a little "trash" too. Talk to different people. Get online and read the news. Pick up a magazine, a book, or even the newspaper. Read stuff you wouldn't normally read about. Get on The Root, CNN, MSNBC, Gawker, The Huffington Post. Your conversational knowledege base can never be to vast.

*Network

For most people this sounds intimidating. It doesn't have to be. Say hi, introduce yourself, and pay a compliment or ask someone a question about themselves. The conversation should go from there with most civilized adults. Being shy is no excuse. Shy people don't get very far. Oh, and before you go to any networking event, Google the people that are hosting it or who will be on the panel. They're usually the VIPs of the room and are most likely to be able to help you get where you want to be. If you can walk up to them and have something to say that shows you did your homework, you get an automatic advantage.

*Listen

You have two ears and one mouth. Use accordingly. You will learn more (and have more to talk about) if you do less talking. You'll also seem more mature, since age can play against you professionally when you're young. There was a woman at the WEEN event who I gave the benefit of the doubt of being on point just because she was in the green room and everyone else was so fab. Then she got to talking about cursing out people at work, how she hadn't changed clothes from the night before, how she was hungover, how much she pays for her weaves, how often she gets one and how she doesn't care about maintaining it (um, we could tell that.) The more she talked, the more my respect for her dropped. One by one, the women she was casually chatting with (ie networking), drifted away with startled looks on their faces. You think she could ever call one of them up for a job lead or a coffee to discuss anything of importance after that? Tell your business to your girls or your mama and leave it at that.

*Look Neat and Dressed (Even if It's Over) For Every Occasion

Whatever your style is, it should flatter you, and make you stand out, if for nothing but its crispness. It's for more than vanity. It gives people an easy entry point to talk to you with a compliment paid to whatever you're wearing. I can't tell you how many great people I've met who've said to me or I've said to them, "I like your shoes/hair." Then we get to talking and it's, "Sorry, what's your name?" and "You have a card?"

*Advertise Yourself

There's a difference between bragging and doing some personal PR. There's nothing wrong with talking about yourself, your ambitions, what you're looking for, etc. People won't know what you do/want if you won't tell them. I met a young woman at the WEEN event who'd somehow landed a meeting with the president of The Magazine, not an easy feat. She wants to work there. She wanted to know how to make that happen. I told her to tell the President that she wanted a job, what she wanted to do exactly, list how she could be a benefit and what made her perfect for the position. She was baffled. "You want me to ask?!" Um... yes. How will she know otherwise? (I've found many 20-somethings hate being direct. Break that habit today.)

*Get Up Early

This one was a devil for me to adopt as I'm an owl-type. But in the last two months I've been doing it, I've accomplished way more than I thought possible and in the down time I've thought up a million new ventures that will run me ragged until next July. I've even started to get up early on weekends. (Admittedly, this was after reading Chinese proverbs about rice paddy work in Outliers.)

*Give Back

Oprah says it all the time, but giving back really does feel good. For you to get anywhere in life, someone had to look out for you. It's only fair that you do the same. It also gives great perspective on how far you've come, going from the person listening to the speaker, to the person speaking; from the person asking, "How do I?" to the woman explaining how.

*Save Money

You can't be fabulous and have debt collection calling your house or mobile. And you don't have to be a baller. To be fab, you just have to be responsible with your money. Save up for what you want, even if it's just a little (I encourage 10 percent.) Stack some away for a rainy day or a big splurge on something nice for yourself. I don't believe in credit cards unless it's an emergency.

*Keep Your Hair in a Do

Hair can make or break an outfit. Even if you're in Chanel from head to toe, and your face has been beat by Sam Fine you will look raggedy if your hair looks crazy. That said, if you're a corporate girl (or an aspiring one) get rid of "bad weaves" and acrylics. Bad weaves: anything without a part, unblended with your texture, of random colors, including all blonde, or having too much hair, all scream, "I'm an underling" and you'll get stuck being one.

*Take Your Tatas off the Glass

Few women can be taken seriously in any professional setting (no matter how casual or artistic) with it all hanging out, even by other women. I know one woman who gets away with it and she's by far the exception to the rule. Don't try what she does at home unless your work requires you to p-pop like Bey Bey for a living.

*Have A Plan

You want to move to a new city? You should have a plan that outlines how you'll get there and how you'll survive. It's not as simple as finding a new job, and just moving. You need a place to live/sleep, something to sleep on, etc. That takes money. You want to start your own business? Same thing. Write the Great American novel? Same thing. If you don't know what steps to take, buy a book, Google or ask someone who's done it already. Actually, do all three.

*Don't Do Dumb Ish 

Half-naked pics on your Facebook page. Saying inappropriate ish on Twitter. Taking pictures of you and your friends doing illegal ish. Recording sexual romps. Big tattoos in glaring places.  So many people do it these days that it's cliche. But it still carrys a stigma and worse, your employer— now and future— have access to it. It's fine to live wildly. Keep the memories. Don't go around documenting it.

*Help Yourself

I get a lot of emails, asking, "Belle, how do I...?" I'm always more apt to respond to women who outline what they're doing and what they've tried as opposed to those who aren't doing much, but waiting for an opportunity to fall from the sky or for someone else to fix what ails them. If you get on the right path, someone will help you. Guaranteed. You may have to ask, or someone may come along and take your hand or point you in the right direction, but they are guaranteed not to if you won't at least try first.

*Be a Big Fish

I can't remember who told me this concept. And I hate that because I'd like to pay homage; its one of the wisest things I've ever been told. If you want to play in the big ocean (say New York), you must first prove you can swim in the small pond (ie anywhere else). You don't start at the top. You just don't. You've got to be a good student to be a good intern, to be a good assistant, to move up from there. You have to master each step. The faster you do, the faster you rise. Some people seem like they get to the top without working—  they don't; they just did the hard work behind the scenes or really early in life.

*10,000 hours

I swear by this concept, which I learned from Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers: The Story of Success. The idea is that you must put in 10,000 hours of work in your chosen field to be among the greats at anything (it's 8,000 just to be recognized as a leader.) It's that simple, and there's no way around it and it usually takes ten years. Even the so-called naturally talented have to hone the gift for the same amount of time. Accept it as truth and start logging your time. Oh, and everyone you admire who is successful and more than a one-hit wonder or 15 minutes of fame getter is a nerd. I mean everyone.

*Ignore Haters

They're like those plants that shoot fireballs from Super Mario Bros. Completely annoying and they pop up at worst possible moment to throw you off task— so we're clear that is the sole purpose of a hater. There's nothing you can do to please them, so don't try. Find solace in the idea that they find you worth hating on and move on. But be careful... All people with criticsm aren't hating. Some folks will break you down because you need to be. You can tell the difference by noticing who avoids name calling and personal attacks and who offers valid reasons for the critique and offers solutions or alternatives.

*Don't Be Influenced By Other People's Agendas

I read recently about a woman from a self-described "po-dunk" town who wants to move to New York. She's about 21/22 and shared this with her sister. The sister quicky ran down a list of why she would never make it. Um... people come here from all around the world all the time. Some of them don't even speak English, have few literacy skills, and are here illegally. But an English speaking, legal citizen with a college degree can't be one of literally millions?

Family can be tricky. If they're halfway decent, they want you to be happy, but they also don't want you too far away. They want you safe, warm, well fed, and protected at all times. They also don't want you to "out-grow" them. This doesn't make them bad people, but what they want for you is the exact opposite of what you get when you go on an adventure, like say, leaving a small town for a city. Sometimes you just have to go against the grain and live your life. (So we're clear MamaBelle and PapaBelle did their damndest to keep me from moving to New York. I'd tell the story someday when I no longer get angry thinking about it) Worst case scenario, you move, you can't pull it together to stay, so you go back home. Either you try again, try something else or you stop trying. Trying and failing is a part of life, but it's only a failure when you give up or worse, don't even try.

Half on A Baby? or Birth Control?

LOL. I love my life. People email me with the randomest ish.   

This letter landed in my Inbox recently. She asked that I pose it to Belle readers:

If you are in a serious relationship, both committed to each other

And you take all the tests to make sure both of you are straight

And you both decide that the condoms come off

And the girl is using birth control (now or before)…

Should the dude help with the birth control expenses? 

Just wanted to hear more thoughts..because the answers that I am getting are a lil unreal for me...

Yeah, I think he should go half on the BC's since the other option is to go half on a baby. In relationships, I have no problem supplying condoms and have offered  (which most men pass on) just because I think it's the right thing to do.

And since male birth control is on the horizon— check it HERE— I wouldn't have a problem picking up half on that either (although I totally don't trust any dude to take a pill every day. He'd have to stay on condoms 'cause I'm not taking pills unless I'm married. Oh, and the trust issue isn't because he's a man, just because I don't trust anyone other than a doctor with my health and I'm not going "raw" without a ring. But I digress.)

So what say you Belleionaires? You expect a man to go half on BCs (cause I heard the price hiked up to $50 a month last year and um.... that adds up.) And male Belles? Are ya'll splitting the tab? I mean you do get something out of the arrangement too (no kid, extra-warmth.)

Discuss.