This is the last year of my thirties. I am officially adulting. 40 is grown woman status. These years have provided some wisdom. Like auntie Oprah, these are the thing I know for sure on my 39th orbit around the sun:
My resting b!tch face has served me well. Instead of 39, I look 29. Some of this is due to genetics and lifestyle but duly note that I have no laugh or frown lines. The stillness in my face that you mistake as pissy is an ancient secret for preserving youth. Thank you rbf.
Dear hoteps (they were called “conscious” back in my day), I am changing the game. I was your prey for far too many years. I am not a victim, I was a willing participant but I am no longer under the spell of your patriarchal/homophobic black power rhetoric. I was not placed here just to grow your seed, cook your food and give your offspring African names. Guess what? I sometimes dye my hair blond. Build a bridge and get over it. It has nothing to do with me having Eurocentric standards of beauty or holding Beynonsense as the standard of black beauty. Not that I owe you an explanation or anything, but gray hair is easier to cover with light color than dark. Fewer touch-ups. Vanity runs in my family, it’s in the genes. Understand fake Farrakhan that my hair color has to do with looking forever youthful. And don’t y’all love a young and tender thoroughbred (but she gotta have natural hair though,right)? Y’all still giving Dr. Umar money for his school? I was just wondering.
Gossip is for middle school. If you are in your thirties and still engaging in gossip I’m going to pray for you. Please know that the same people that you are dishing the tea with will be airing your dirty laundry soon after. A gossip cannot be trusted. I can’t be friends with people I cannot trust. I’m too old to make new friends. Just kidding, not really. Don’t be a gossip.
Black people need to figure out ways to tame our crazy. Trust me, I understand we have plenty of things that drive us to madness. But we can choose not to go. Mental illness is a real thing in our community. You can’t church it away, pray it away, intellectualized it away, or call it a white people thing. It must be addressed as the disease that it is. I recommend combining ancient ways and modern medicine. We are a product of both. Exercise, diet and lifestyle can help. But if necessary, take the damn pills. Yoga tames my crazy, and I am so grateful for this tool!
You can be a mother and still have dreams of your own. Do not sacrifice yourself, your happiness or your sanity for motherhood. Martyrdom is played out like trap music. No, that’s just wishful thinking. But really, Jesus was the last human sacrifice. Figure out a way to parent effectively and still do things that bring you joy. Fight for your happiness. It is the only thing worth fighting for. You are a mother. You know magic.
Find out more about how I recovered from hoteps in my new ebook: