The Blacker The Berry

Just the other day, I read an article on theroot.com about Halle Berry's statement that she considers her mixed race daughter to be black. Apparently this created a bit of a stir within circles.  I'm not sure which ones, but somewhere, someone has an issue with it.


Race is the final frontier - and it's not going anywhere, anytime soon. It is not enough for one to identify and "label" one's self  - now we're having to defend our label. Those who consider themselves of pure race, unmixed blood might be surprised what they would discover should they become a guest on the show "Who Do You Think You Are", or Henry Louis Gates' "Faces of America". I like to joke and say I'm mixed too, with black and blacker. But truly, while my father's side is straight uncut motherland product, my maternal grandmother was a Caucasian and Black mixed (of African ancestry) Guyanese by way of Barbados and my maternal grandfather had East Indian (Madras),  Black (African ancestry) and Caucasian blood.  My maternal grandmother's family referred to their offspring as "baccra" (Caucasian and Black). My maternal grandfather's family referred to their offspring as coolie-dougla - let's put a pin on that. In the islands, Trinidad & Guyana in particular, which are over 50% East Indian in population, this term is used quite frequently. It is both a label of pride and offense. Pride because it means you are mixed with East Indian blood (which gives your "softer hair", "clean skin", and somehow elevated status in society). Offense, because the term "coolie" is the derogatory equivalent of "nigger" in the United States. However, as it relates to miscegenation in the islands, that term is a-ok.  Relatives have told me that my skin is smooth because of my coolie blood. All offspring that have been born to my maternal grandparent's lineage are proudly proclaimed "coolie-dougla chi'ren". Further, I've been prompted by one aunt in particular to go back to Guyana and find a nice coolie man. Gotta' resurrect that blood. Can't let this hair and skin thing die out, ya' know. 


Looking back, I believe that my darkness, and in outsiders eyes, unquestionable belonging to the black race was a gift. It NEVER was an issue. No one struggled with how I defined myself, nor did they struggle in how to define me. Even though my blood is mixed, I never struggled with identity, never questioned who I was. That's not to say I didn't feel "out of style" with the interracial shenanigans my people heap upon one another (see my article "Good Hair"). In high school there were a few lighter skinned blacks who would deny their blackness and would label themselves any garden variety of things - but never any of which were black. They were able to get away with it because I could have cared less and the white students didn't know any better. Nevertheless, it always puzzled me. What was so bad about being black?


There has been plenty of debate about whether the election of Barack Obama has propelled America into a post-racial society. I don't even really understand what that's supposed to mean. I googled it and found that "A true definition is undoubtedly hard to come by, as the term and connotations of the term are dubious. The idea of a post-racial society, in its most basic form, is a society in which race is no longer significant or important". Race not important? Surely you jest. What about all those census forms, EEO questionnaires, skin lightening products, lip injections, weaves, wigs and booty implants? Race may be less relevant to those born in the last 30 years, but it is STILL relevant. Plus, we've got a good share of old school Jim Crow aficionados hanging with the baby boomer Jim Crow contingency, welcoming the New Jim Crow recruits joining the the ranks. Helloooooooo tea party? The true level of absurd racism that exists in the good ole USA has never been more apparent than since the campaign, election and presidency of Barack Hussein Obama. 


The challenge with issues of race is fundamental. Speaking as a black woman (the only voice I am qualified to use), I see race as an intimate, experiential, spirit place. It is an intimacy that is impossible to explain.  It is impossible for one outside of it to adopt its lense and view and live the world as one within does. The nuances can be ubiquitous and tangible and at time thinly-veiled and intangible.  The tv show "What Would You Do" features social experiments entitled 'Confronting Racism In America'. This series has shown how latent racism can morph into full blown life jeopardizing indifference faster than you can say post-racial. Three scenarios : 1.  a white couple gets into a public physical confrontation - observers jump in gingerly, come to the woman's rescue. 2.  A black man and white woman get into a public physical confrontation - observers jump in, come to the woman's rescue and call the police. 3. A black couple gets into a public physical confrontation - observers alternate between ignoring them and yelling at them to take it somewhere else. I'd like to hear someone explain the glaring differential treatment away. 


It is STILL not easy being black in America. The same root.com Halle Berry article also said, "Berry has never used the words "mixed" or "biracial" to describe her racial identity. She identifies as a black woman. Similarly, President Barack Obama, Faith Evans, Jasmine Guy and even the late, great Bob Marley all embraced having a white parent -- but didn't identify by degree of blackness. The stretch to be "mixed" allows people to remove  themselves from the discriminatory world of blackness". While some of Halle's statements about her experiences with black men have been disappointing, I applaud her in choosing her identity, her label with pride and passing on that pride and belonging to her child. Old folks say "its not what you're called, it's what you answer to". I'll add to that, it's not how the world sees you, it's how you see yourself. For me, it's unapologetically black and proud.

Suit Up. It's On.

Dedicated to Michael.

There's a reason why it's called the 'dating game'. While it needn't be a zero sum contest, don't get it twisted,  more often than not, someone has the advantage and someone does not. However, that doesn't mean that two can't make it work. Successful romantic relationships are possible.  Love, ( the progressive extrapolation of dating) is a contact sport. There's no way to be in it to win it and not be at risk. There is no equity without investment. You can deny it if you want, but you would be best served to suit up in your most protective gear and keep your eye on the ball (lest it knock you upside you pretty little head).  You can't win the penant, the trophy, the title, the ring without being committed to AND active in the game.

I grew up in San Francisco during the years the 49ers dominated the NFL. Freddie Solomon, Dwight Clark, Ronnie Lott, Jerry Rice, Steve Young and Joe Montana were led by the marvelous Bill Walsh. As a little girl, I would watch them play and while not really knowing what was going on, I knew the 9'ers were somethin' special. I was a fan, and that was an effortless undertaking given their record. From my limited understanding and comfortable ignorance, the game was easy.

In the late 90's, I dated a man who was a HUGE Jets fan.  In a closeted fashion I jumped on board. Why closeted? Because the Jets SUCKED. I didn't get it. I would dutifully watch the games with him and would observe him going through a range of emotions. Why was he so committed to this team? Every week Bill Parcell's looked like he was going to have a coronary on the sidelines and the Jets looked like the adult football version of the bad news bears. Yet, there he sat, week after week, believing that brighter days were ahead for his beloved Jets. He loved them, he wanted me to love them, he wanted me to love the game. It was at his feet (okay, on his couch), that I learned the intricacies, the history, the game of football. Touchbacks - √, special teams - √, off sides - √, calling an audible - √. I was SO excited.  I wasn't the long-suffering girlfriend tolerating the weekly games - I was one of THEM now and LOVING it.  I got why week after week, he believed that on any given Sunday it could all change. The game was much more than luck. It was much more than a combination of players that were big & strapping, agile & leith and the swift footed. It was about focus, commitment, and teamwork.

In the game, be your position offense or defense, every player has a role, and these roles are interdependent.  In order to advance/to hold back, to get that first down/to block that first down, to succeed in that passing or running game/to intercept or stop that pass and/or running game,  people MUST work together - otherwise the entire effort is futile. Even still, we all know that even when the best laid plans are made - challenges and losses still occur. When it comes to the 'love' variety of the game, the problem is that we continue with the offense/defense mindset vs. the teamwork "we're in this thing together" mindset. Many women operate with the all or nothing mindset. We are so focused on the end result, we fail to truly learn and master the nuances - read the play, call an audible, slow things down and take ourselves out of the game when necessary. We stay ALL UP in the game though we are at the 2 minute warning and down by 20 points. As a matter of fact, we'll play through the 2 minute warning and demand overtime. Many men get drafted (franchise no less), gear up, get in formation, and lose focus. They begin to throw interception after interception (aka sabotage), rather than regroup, refocus and recommit. Rather than walking away from the game with their head held high and their integrity intact, they end up leaving the game having made a mess of it.  They are the ones that become famous. NOT for their stellar performance, but rather their abysmal, short-sighted strategies. These men have thus cemented their place in the losers hall of fame.

I learned A LOT from my Jets loving boyfriend. The game, (should you suit up), is about focus,  commitment and teamwork. It's about believing that it CAN be done.  In spite of the odds, in spite of the mistakes. Not that there won't be challenges, it's about meeting those challenges together. The effort, the lessons, the reward, is worth it.

By the way, one year after Bill Parcells became coach, the Jets would place 1st in their division. I am convinced Michael's allegiance played a role:-)

The dating game,  I've got my gear on - who's with me?

Let The Good Times Roll

He replied, “You are talking like a foolish woman. Shall we accept good from God, and not trouble?” Job 2:10

As of today, I've been unemployed for 16 months. That's 64 weeks. That's 480 days. That's a goooooooood clip. In that time, I have experienced the some incredible highs and some devastating lows. Highs - interviewed with the icon Madonna for an opportunity to run her non-profit. Yes, you read correctly. I literally sat across from Madonna in her apartment discussing her love for Malawi, her decision to start an organization, and her insightfulness on the gift of giving back. Lows - wondering if I have any skills at all when any and everything I've applied for has failed to materialize. My self-confidence has taken a beating - a thrashing - it has teetered on the edge of annihilation.

In my 39+ years of life, I've faced my share of Goliaths (as i'm sure you have too). Twelve years ago - I faced the Goliath of death. My mother never had so much as a cold until the illness that would claim her life came about. My mother was such a strong force that if cancer could be punked, my mother would have played the part of Ashton Kutcher. In my mind, in ALL of my family's minds, cancer didn't have a chance with Joan Chea. When it seemed that cancer was gaining the upper hand, my mother rallied back. She was on the mend. I had visions of my mother speaking across the nation about how the Lord brought her back from the brink of death. I KNEW this would happen. Of course He would heal her, why wouldn't He? Hey, I payed attention in my bible classes, in family worship - this guy Jesus WILL answer my prayers. That's what ALL of y'all told me. Ask and ye shall receive. Seek and ye shall find. I prayed, my father prayed, my brother prayed. Any and everybody we knew prayed, asked God for her healing and claimed her healing. Though she rallied, my mother would succumb to cancer thirteen months after its debut. I decided somebody lied to me.

In 2007 I faced the Goliath of disappointment. I met a little girl from Uganda - Jane Kemigisa. Jane came into my world as a client while I was working as an social worker for an international medical organization. Jane was orphaned under unimaginable circumstances. She was a precocious, curious, wise, chocolate drop. She was full of potential and possibility. A family stepped forward saying they wanted to adopt her but in the end they were unable to do all that was necessary to make it happen. Jane was going to be sent back to an uncertain future and the thought of that did not bode well with me at all. I stepped up willing to take the plunge into single motherhood. This little girl deserved a chance. I didn't have it all figured out, but I decided she and I would figure it out together. I jumped in, started to get my stroke down and suddenly was gasping for air. The opportunity to adopt this child was taken from me as quickly as it had been presented. At this point she had been living with me for six months. I was in love. I was heartbroken. I would later pack up all her belongings, board a plane with her and take her back to her homeland. I was devastated. Goliath had knocked the air out of me.

The Goliath of a broken heart has cut my tail so frequently that the sting has become familiar. He shows up at least once every couple years. Sue me, I'm a hopeful romantic. I've dealt with 'men' who have taken to me instantly - scented my life with compliments, texts, phone calls, promises of a future, what if's and the sort only to see it evaporate into the stench of manipulative propaganda. They have spewed copious amounts of....let me put it this way, it comes from a chicken but you can't make chicken salad out of it. I've dealt with the guy who didn't celebrate Christmas the year we were dating. But not until AFTER he received my gift of a cashmere coat. I've dealt with the guy who barreled full steam ahead into a long distance relationship with me (after I'd asked him if he was SURE he could do this) only to tell me two months later that he couldn't handle anything "heavy" right now, especially long distance. I've dealt with the guy who said he honored my stand of celibacy then got pissed and cut me off when I wouldn't give in. I've dealt with the guy who was the antithesis of support when my mother was in her final hours of life. How DARE I expect any support from him? We'd only been dating for a year at that point. If it weren't for my hopefulness, the word 'love' would take on the distastefulness of those other four letter words.

On the flipside - while I didn't get the job with Madonna - I interviewed with MADONNA - IN her apartment. I was flown to NYC, put up in a very nice hotel and was afforded the privilege of interviewing for an organization that is changing the lives of countless children in Africa. That opportunity showed me what was possible.

While my mother did pass, I was afforded the opportunity to work through some of the stuff that accumulates in mother/daughter relationships. I was able to give her flowers while she could still smell them. I came to realize what is REALLY important in the grand scheme of life. I was able to dot many of i's and cross plenty of t's.

While I wasn't able to become a mother to an amazing little girl - I was afforded the opportunity to play the role that was meant for me to play in her life. I gained real world experience in the world of parenthood. She was later adopted by an American family that has the emotional, spiritual and financial means to give her the life she deserves.

While I am still single, the men that I've gotten to know have exposed me to the world of politics, the culinary world, medicine, music, law, entertainment, marketing and lobbying (to name a few). I've learned a great deal about cultures from the good ole USA to Europe to the African continent to the West Indies. I've had incredible conversations, enjoyed side splitting laughter, outstanding meals, spine tingling kisses, wonderful trips an abundance of romance and have had plenty of smiles about what might be. All of those experiences have made my life richer.

In addition to the above I have had incredible life experiences that many would envy. To be fair, to be honest, and without question, my good/amazing/wonderful/life changing experiences FAR outweigh my bad. There would be no good were it not for bad. It is the ying and yang of life. I never EVER question why favor, blessings and good things come my way - but I weep and gnash teeth when the bad comes. Sounds a bit foolish, no? I'm with Job on this one.

Pigs DO NOT Fly - Trust Me, I've Done The Research

Contrary to what the picture to the right depicts - pigs DO NOT fly. Now before I get letters from the anti-pig defamation league or the anti "is she calling men pigs via a metaphor?" league - hear me out.

First of all, the hyperbole of the aerial swine has been around for a good minute . The phrase is thought to come from a 16th century Scottish proverb. Is it because there are similarities between the pig and the bird? "Birds and Pigs do not possess sweat glands in their skin. Except for this there are no similarities. Pigs will never fly, or lay eggs. "When pigs fly" is an adynaton, a way of saying that something will never happen. The phrase is often used for humorous effect, to scoff at over-ambition". I wonder if the originator of the term understood the intricacies of the physical and physiological limitations on pigs. Or did they just see a fleshy, wallowing, grunting mess and conclude the likelihood of a pig "rising" above its predicament was beyond impossible. Pigs CANNOT and DO NOT fly. Why would you want them to anyway? Pigs do what they were born to do. To do otherwise would make a pig, not a pig. Pigs corpulent bodies were made for land. Pigs are born to be slaughtered. The agility, lightness and wings possessed by birds are not transferable to pigs. Thank goodness, the thought of that freaks me out. Domestic pigs range between 110-770 pounds. Can you imagine a 200 pound pig flying through the sky?

Now eagles are a different story altogether. They are not quite as large in number as the lowly pig, yet they are nowhere near extinction. There are plenty of eagles to be found.

The eagle shows four characteristics:

Vision - The eagle's eyes can see great distances. They can also directly into the sun without being blinded.
*Disapora Muse says: The person for you will see beyond the superficial, beyond what others see and will overlook that which is not important. They will see your value and will act accordingly.

Eagles Never Eat Dead Meat- You will never see an eagle eating meat that it did not kill. An eagle is not a scavenger. It hunts for and kills its own food. It hunts for the prey while it's warm and alive.
*Diaspora Muse says: The person for you will not mess over you. The person for you will not take advantage of your hurts for their benefit. They will treat you as the blessing that you are.

Looks For & Flies Into Storms - As storms approach, lesser birds head for cover, but the might eagle spreads its wings and with a great cry mounts upon the powerful updrafts, soaring to heights of glory. Eagles use the storm to lift him to these great heights.
*Diaspora Muse says: The person for you will be there in the good and bad times. They will be your shoulder to cry on. They will be your encourager and cheerleader. They will be the wind beneath your wings.

Very Gentle & Attentive To Their Young - The eagle is known for its ferocity, yet no member of the bird family is more gently and attentive to its young. At just the right time, the mother eagle begins to teach her eaglets how to fly. She gathers an eaglet onto her back, and spreading her wings, flies high. Suddenly she swoops out from under the eaglet and as it falls, it gradually learns what its wings are for until the mother catches it once again on her wings. The process is repeated. If the young is slow to learn or cowardly, she returns him to the nest, and begins to tear it apart, until there is nothing left for the eaglet to cling to. Then she nudges him off the cliff.
*Diaspora Muse says: While we are all capable of an intermittent trip, the person for you will know when to step up and when to fall back. Your welfare and well being will rank high on their list of priorities. They will be there for the gentle push or slight nudge you need - their care and later their love for you will temper their interaction.

In my opinion, aspiring to crack the flying pig code is part of the woman's nature. We specialize in making the impossible, possible. It is both the blessing and curse of being a woman. It is a blessing because we find a way to make things happen. Give a woman a can of beans, a handful of rice and an onion and we will prepare you a delectable meal. We figure out how to get things done in no win situations. We are resourceful. It is a curse because there are times when you simply need to walk away. We hang around thinking things will change. In my observation, women find it HARD to walk away. Especially when the foundation of the relationship is founded on sketchy ground..cue Effie singing "And I Am Telling You". Traditionalists will use the aforementioned as support of the argument that women are to be found and sought after, women are to be courted. Unfortunately, nowadays it is quite common for women to take on the man's role of the pursuer. On the flip-side, and in my humble opinion, quite often men make the mistake of entertaining women just because they are there and/or this particular woman may not require much. At times men entertain relationships because of convenience. The man becomes an eagle donning a pig suit. I don't know about y'all but I want to be wanted in totality. I don't want you to be with me just because nor do I want you with me hoping I will change. In my early 30's I came to a conclusion- for every piece of boom boom cheese there's a piece of moley bread. In other words there is someone for everyone. Because something doesn't work out doesn't mean there's something wrong with you OR the other person. It simply means you all aren't meant for each other. Let that person go and find/allow yourself to be discovered by the one who will make your heart soar!

It is virtually impossible to mistake a pig for an eagle. Stop trying to make pigs fly. Make it easy on yourselves - link up with an eagle. Trust me, I've done the research.

Tell The Truth And Shame The Devil

Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

About a year ago I saw "The Invention of Lying". Interesting concept, it was. Lying is such a charged, hurtful, convenient notion. The reality is people lie because they would rather NOT deal with the repercussions of being honest and telling the truth. Being honest and telling the truth takes courage. Might I add it takes courage to dish out honesty AND to receive it. As much as I hate being on the receiving end of lies, and would argue that lying/omitting information and embellishing are the exception and not the rule in my life - I find that when I make a concerted effort to be 100% honest, I am constantly coming up against the "perfect" opportunity to escape dealing with any number of things by just....lying.

Lying permeates every single nook, cranny, layer, sphere and prism of modern day culture. Some will tell you that truth is a very subjective thing. Existentialists will offer that "we all have our own truth". However, the fall out, the repercussions, aren't limited to the lie-teller. I am of the opinion that lying is nothing more than actualized selfishness. If you don't beleive me, I dare you to try to make it through the day without telling a single lie, embellishment or non-committal answer. In other words, tell the unmitigated, unadulterated truth. It is both terrifying and freeing. If we all lived responsibly and authentically there would be much less to apologize for, ask forgiveness for and LIE about. Knowing the truth is inevitable, that it will be known, has behavior modifying properties. We all know some people would rather you lie to them than tell them the truth. That STILL doesn't excuse you from your responsibility to live...responsibly. Just think about it - what if we couldn't count on ANYONE to be true to their word. What is we all walked around wielding our personal truths about without any concern for the world we live in? Just because you lie about something doesn't erase its existence or reality.

A few years back I was visting Uganda. While I was there I was the guest of a very successful, well-to -do leading attorney in the country. I wined and dined with the creme de la creme of Ugandan society. It was clear that my host lived well above the socioeconomic level of the average Ugandan. In spite of that fact, I noticed he would frequently stop and buy SIM cards for his cell phone. His house boy would be sent to pick up a SIM card. His secretary would go fetch a SIM card. I thought it was odd. Here in America most people receive a bill for their past usage. Those who don't typically pay by use is a result of bad credit, etc. This man clearly could afford to pay his bills - I asked why was he a man of means doing as the "commoners"? His response was that "Americans live in a different paradigm. You all are extended credit with the assumption that you will keep your word and pay what is owed. There is a level of faith, a level of trust extended to you by businesses in America. In Uganda if you want something, you have to pay for it first, even electricity". He later added that if credit were extended in Uganda, in no time at all the economy would come crashing down. Ironic, we see what happened to the USA as credit lines were extended to those who could and could not be trusted. American culture on a whole is built on the assumption of honesty. Even in our court system there is the presumption of innocence. We are expected to speak with integrity, live with integrity and make commitments with integrity. Our economic, social and moral foundation is based on the supposition of integrity.

The truth is incontrovertible, malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end; there it is. Winston Churchill

I have challenged myself to live responsibly, authentically and honestly. I can't see doing one or two of those three, it must be all. Our lives, our families, our communities and our world would be a better place if we all challenged ourselves to do the same. Tell the truth and shame the devil - who's in?

Are You In That Number?

It is said that there is strength in numbers. In North America, approximately 15% to 25% of women and 5% to 15% of men were sexually abused when they were children. In this case, I wonder to whom the strength is rendered - the victimizer or the victim?

I hesitated in writing this piece. As mentioned above, my counterparts are large in number...I am not alone, yet it is still a painful conversation to have - even with one's self. I was sexually abused as a child. I was young....very young. I couldn't have been more than four years old when it started and it went on for about three years. As is the case with most victims of sexual abuse, the perpetrator wasn't the boogie man, some weirdo down the street, or the man hanging out at the park - he was a trusted family friend. As a matter of fact, it's very likely that my victimizer is reading this, right now. He was never confronted, not because I didn't tell, but because I wasn't believed. Actually, I was treated as though it was something I brought on myself. There's a disturbing dynamic that takes place in many of our homes. Often times, things that don't fit the image that we seek to present simply land on the editing floor. These things are later unearthed in co-dependent relationships, victims becoming victimizers, shame, alcoholism, promiscuity, use of illicit drugs, low self-esteem, so on, and so on.

I was thirty years old when I had the "aha" moment that freed me from self- destructive behavior, shame and low self-esteem. I was thirty years old when I realized that what happened to me from the ages of four through seven wasn't my fault. I was thirty years old when I realized that the gift and responsibility of sexuality endowed to me by my creator was prematurely and irresponsibly awakened by a flawed, predatory young man who was likely abused himself. I was thirty years old when I realized that moving forward, I had a choice.

When a child is sexually abused - more often than not, the switch of sexual desire is flipped on. I'll take it a bit further. Not only is it flipped on, the switch is secured in the on position with a firmly nailed in plank of wood. This child's body will crave this connection. Their mind will tell them one thing, but their body another. Given their youth, they lack the maturity to manage and process these feelings. Often times, like me, the child is made to feel that their is something wrong with them for having these feelings, for craving and at times seeking out a means to meet that desire. The desire is collateral damage for the wrong that was done to that child. There is a lack of sensitivity about the reality that this child now faces. To heap guilt on top of a child who has been vicitimized is inexcusable. Think about when you crossed the 'fleshly" threshold in your life? For many who had a choice as to when to engage sexually - once that step was taken it was likely akin to holding back wild horses from indulging with reckless abandon. Sex, intimacy and physically connecting feels good.....REAL good. It's supposed to. God created it that way. Just because it is wrongly ignited doesn't take that away. A few months back Tyler Perry shared his story of abuse on Oprah. The thing that struck me about his retelling of the abuse was not only the bravery it took for a man and a man of his stature to share his experience. It was not only how in his telling of the story the emotion was so raw it was as though he was transported back to that time. What also struck me was the terminology he used. He said more than once that "his body betrayed him". Even though he KNEW he was being violated. Even though he KNEW what was happening was wrong. Even though - his body betrayed him. Those words resonated deeply with me.

The abused child's journey into adulthood and healthy expression of sexuality is rife with landmines. The foundation upon which their sexuality is based is DEEPLY flawed. Every step taken has the potential to swing to an extreme on the continuum of sexuality. For me, I always thought something was wrong with me. To this day, I still struggle with processing what is healthy and normal. So, you may ask what could have be done differently for me? What should a parent do if their child comes to them and alleges that they have been abused? In addition to confronting the alleged abuser and informing authorities:

1. Listen
2. Give your child the assurance that you will protect them from any further abuse.
3. Let them know it is NOT their fault.
4. f you haven't had that talk about the birds and the bees you will need to now. If you have had it, revisit it and explain what they might feel, think etc. as a result of this abuse. Yes, this may add another layer of discomfort to that already uncomfortable conversation, but you have to give your child the tools to combat the residuals of the abuse. Otherwise you are sending your child into battle with a butter knife.

Finally, remind yourself that your child may act out - the way to deal with it is in love and understanding. NEVER make your child feel it is their fault or that something is wrong with them. They have been dealt an unfortunate card - teach them how to manage it. If your child was born with diabetes and their body had difficulty regulating its blood glucose and blood sugar levels you would have a frank conversation with them. You would spell out the dangers in a candy bar, piece of cake or can of soda. You would tell them that their body reacts differently to certain things and that they had to be extra careful. Why hesitate to have that conversation with our children that have been sexually abused?

I am on the eve of my 40th year of life. I have learned much, experienced even more and through it all am grateful for all that makes me uniquely me. My pain, my mistakes and my missteps have the potential of freeing others, enlightening others, empowering others, changing others. What could have destroyed me has made me stronger. The victim blames, the victor learns. My name is Cynthia Chea and I am a survivor.

Good Hair

I’ve worn dreadlocs for the past 11 ½ years. Some see locs as a form of rebellion and an anti-establishment manifesto. For me, deciding to loc my hair was a major step in my journey to total self acceptance. See, I grew up in the age where being "light skinned with long hair and pretty eyes" was the standard by which the black community measured beauty. Debarge reigned supreme on the airways and those who weren't naturally blessed with "good hair" sought refuge in leisure curls, jheri curls, wave nouveaus and good old fashioned super strength relaxers. Nothing could be done for skin color or eye color, but hair? Absolutely. For those outside of the black community, the term "good hair" refers to hair that is curly, soft, wavy, straight. It is often times a byproduct of miscegenation. Take one look at my picture and you will surely conclude that the miscegenation in my blood line was kept to a minimum. Nevertheless, susceptible to the majority, I fell in line and like a good soldier received my war scars of scabbed scalps, over-processed hair, hot comb burns, nights of sleeping on my knuckles, and a rainbow's worth of hair coloring.

I am fortunate to be a first generation American of indigenous Liberian and Guyanese descent. I wear my heritage with unmitigated pride and aplomb. My father is a member of the Kru tribe - hence my nod and mention of his indigenous lineage. He's not part of the repatriated African American contingency - he is through and through, to the bone, uncut, motherland product. My mother was a melange of African, Caucasian and East Indian (Madras) blood. The result of this union produced two deeply chocolate kissed, ample bodied, slightly relaxed wool-like coifed haired children. Given the times, this mean that growing up I felt abnormal.

I moved to New York City in 1996 one week after completing graduate studies at Golden Gate University in my hometown of San Francisco. I could not WAIT to move to New York. I had begun a love affair with the city as a ten year old girl. Back in 1980 my Aunty Shirley ran food services for Macy's at 34th Street. My brother and I spent a Christmas break with her. Every day we'd take the train in from Montclair, New Jersey and would descend into the wintery wonder that was New York City. Can you imagine what Manhattan in all its splendor looked like to a little girl from the city by the bay? It was then that I KNEW I'd return one day. So now it's 1996 and I'm moving to NYC - Brooklyn's Crown Heights neighborhood in particular. I'm excited, yet totally clueless as to how this move will irrevocably change my life.

Ask anyone who has spent any time in NYC and they will tell you the city is overrun with amazingly attractive, stunningly gorgeous, disturbingly exotic men and women. The racial mixes and 100% pure varieties represented there are mind-blowing. While this next statement may seem unlikely given what I previously stated, one of the gifts NYC gave me was a sense of self-confidence and peace with who I was/am. See, I came to a realization that there will ALWAYS be someone who will one up your beauty, intelligence, etc. However, they can NEVER trump your ability to be you. The minute I decided to accept and celebrate my 95% cacao kissed skin, nod to the motherland mane and ample form, people started gravitating towards me. All of the things that made me unique and abnormal had now made me....unique and abnormal. Unique meaning: being the only one of its kind; without an equal or equivalent; unparalleled. Abnormal meaning: not normal; deviating from the usual or typical; extraordinary. New York City's gift to me was the realization that I was one of a kind and extraordinary. Aren't we all? The master creator took care in crafting each and every one of us. Who I am, why I am and what I am, was/is ALL part of HIS master plan. Who you are, why you are and what you are was/is ALL part of HIS master plan. Psalm 139:13-16 tells us so.

I have been unemployed for just over a year now. Quite a few times in the past year well meaning friends and acquaintances have asked “do you think you may be missing out on opportunities because of your hairstyle”? My answer has been “maybe – but having locs doesn’t make me any less qualified than having straight hair makes me qualified”. My hair, good, bad or indifferent is who I am - free, natural, qualified, enlightened, worldly and real! To me, that is good hair.

I've Got The Power!

I’m a FB junkie, that proclaimed, it stands to reason that I come across a litany of jokes, musings, rants, raves and quotes daily. The following is one I came across the other day - If you want to know a person's true character, give them power over you. Whew! Part of the reason I decided to start a blog was selfish the other selfless. I am a student of life – I’m one of those people who learns from experiences and applies the learned knowledge moving forward. While many of us don’t learn from other’s experiences, some of us do. It is my sincere desire, wish and hope that my words, my experiences can in some way serve as a barrier to even a smidgen of pain, disappointment and/or anxiety. But I digress, getting back to the quote.

In my 30+ years of life I have given “people” power over me. Consequently I have been abused, misused and a whole lot of other things. The question is – why have I given anyone power over me? In my daily walk as a practical Christian I am constantly in a neurotic tug-of-war with my creator, my provider and the lover of my soul. I find myself simultaneously placing and ripping my cares and worries in His and out of His capable hands. Yet, I meet a man (intelligent, spiritually aware, succe$$ful handsome and oh yeah, fundamentally flawed) and willingly hand over the reigns of my life emotionally and physically. In the words of Mark Twain I dance like no one is watching. I sing like no one is listening and I love like I've never been hurt. Never fear, I have the assurance of Mr. Twain that this will all lead to living like it's heaven on Earth. In all fairness to Mr. Twain, I’ve seen so many versions of this quote, he may not have even said it.

Life's journey is....a trip!