First Birthday... Anniversary of Mommyhood

ONE.
I have been a mother for a year now. It's nothing like I expected. I do everything wrong. Or at least, not nearly as well as I expected.

Somewhere along the line... I lost my mommy-momentum. When my child was first born... I used to read everyday, do cloth diapers and breastfeed. I stopped reading months ago. And as much as cloth diapers made me love laundry, I've stopped that to. Breastfeeding? I only survived 7 months.

I need to step it up during year two. I need to go back to reading daily. (Maybe find a few spanish and german books.) Try to go back to cloth diapers (they are a lot less wasteful... and less expensive.) And, try to make all of my babyfood organic.

TWO.
I thought of going to an Apple Orchard as a first birthday celebration. I think that might have to wait until year two...

Even if I can't afford anything fancy, maybe I can do something... Something.

I don't think mothers can afford to be tired, or lazy. So, I need to get off my bum... and make the best of everything.

Awaiting Harper

Anyone who has ever met me realizes that I love books much more than people. And, I do love people. I love intimate moments shared with someone who loves you despite your flaws. I live for hugs, embraces that whisper I know you (all of you) and I am still here.

But, while people cannot be perfect... books can be.

I stopped reading. Okay, I occassionally skim magazine articles... and glance at the new titles in local bookstores. But for the most part. I stopped reading.

The truth is I am pregnant and I do not know anything about children.

The truth is, that I found something that I love more than fiction, more than poetry... more than the uttered truth, and that is Harper.

Harper what? people ask. Probably Harper Giovanni or Harper Evette. That is still to be determined.

I am in my nineth month of pregnancy. Sometimes the only thing that makes me smile, is my daughter moving, searching and growing in my abdomen.

I am not pregnant. I have never been loved by a man. Oh sure, I have loved -- but I have never been in love. I have never been courted.

I do not expect to be.

This is not how babies are supposed to be born into the world.

I finally have a place of my own. Simply, a room of my own. Some would argue it is all I need. Three white walls, one red. A red desk, red chair and red shelf. Two Pink and two red picture frames, all empty, awaiting Harper's smile. A moses basket from my sister in law. A bed thanks to my housemates. A place of my own.

I am very excited about being a mother. I never thought I would actually be. I never wanted or expected to have a child out of wedlock. And, I never expected that any man would actually love me enough to have a child with me. Honestly, I never thought any man would be able stand me enough to have sex more than once. Because my sex life is scattered, random, adventurous and rare -- I figured the chances of me getting pregnant, ever, before menopause was highly unlikely.

And so, since here I am. And as I type, Harper adjusts herself to her own comfort. Since we are here, both mother and daughter, sharing this room. I figure this is meant to be. I figure, Harper is meant to be here. I figure she has a few things that she would like to teach me.

I am excited and eager to meet Miss Harper. While I am glad that my mother has not witnessed my downfall, I truly with my mother was here to see her first granddaughter being born.

It's amazing how much you can love someone who you have never seen.

What's Your Dangerous Idea?

In the 21st century, the three largest threats to individual autonomy are braintapping, blacklisting and blackmail.

I am not certain how to prevent any of the circumstances.

Miracles

I am in awe of the cells dividing within me. I am amazed by the independence and codependence of life weaving within my wound a new existence that is both whole and separate from me.

Since it is a cliche, I laugh now.

Lately, I have been going for days without doing much of anything. I eat, sleep, read, write and shit. I have stopped bathing regularly and I ran out of deoderant about a month ago. I have stopped changing clothes.

I occassionally steal dimes, nickels and quarters from my father. He notices without mention. I use the money to fund my eating habits.

Each day, I search for something to look forward to. I know I am searching for reasons to live.

I find it rather pathetic that my greatest goal in life is to move out of my father's house. I am afraid it may take me five years to simply get a job. I have never been unemployed before. Now, I read reluctantly and I write - mostly blogging - out of habit.

My perspective on life used to change depending on my location. California was the only place that made me believe, at least on the surface, in multiculturalism. New York taught me that money and class was more important than race. Living in Detroit reminds me of the issues that are uniquely African American.

The most pathetic thing about my condition is that I do not know what happened. That is the most pathetic part.

It is cliche to think, 'one day I will look back on these days and laugh.' Since it is a cliche, I laugh now. Devils sit in corners, too. Perhaps devils blog, too. Perhaps devils read, too. I laugh anyway. I never believed in devils, anyhow. Only a God attempting to explain the limits of freewill to a mass of unique individuals. Pain is inevitable.

I am growing used to being hated without hating. I understand the harm and necessity of Christianity. Both fitted together in an unknown history from illegible stories, to chattel inhumanity, to beleaguered beauty racing against stereotypes and statistics.

I used to embarrass easily; now, I do not know what shame is.

Revisiting Brown Paths

In 2003, I wrote on the original back cover of Brown Paths, "Most times, I believe my life is just a series of deep conversations. In the intimate moments of shared truths, I find my purpose and my joy."

I used to tell everyone that my life was simply, "a series of deep conversations." Sadly, my life has declined from, "a series of deep conversations," to a concurrence of overheard insults. It is rather pathetic.

For the first two decades of my life, I travelled the country, and sometimes, the world engaging random people in intimate conversations. I heard from their mouths what it is to live their life, and from their stories, I learned what it is to be me.

Before I left New York, it seemed as if people were following me around and brushing just close enough to hurl insults in my direction. Within earshot on a subway, in a library, at work or on the street -- I had my first experience of what it feels like to be The Unwanted.

All over the city I found movie advertisements reading, "I hate Sarah Marshall" and "You Suck Sarah Marshall". Not knowing who this Sarah Marshall character was -- but I found a city, and perhaps a nation, speaking to me. Looking back, it is rather humorous the emotions I drew from things which were unrelated to me. In retrospect it is like the American Express commercials of inanimate objects giving signs to the viewer.

This lifetime, I have had the opportunity to meet the most beautiful, intelligent people in the world. Living in Detroit, New York and the Bay Area was more than I could have asked for on my own.

I miss the conversations. Really.

I wonder how so many people can hear my thoughts, and no one visit my blog posts. As irrelevant as it sounds, blogging is the closest thing I have left to a genuine conversation. I miss the conversations. I miss talking to one person, and knowing that only one person can hear me. I miss the intimate moments of life.

If I never saw the age of 26, I would be able to say that I have had a full life.

This is my Brown Path. I never expected it to lead me here, alone. But, this is my journey and it has been a beautiful walk even unto the underbrush. I wonder if I am supposed to be learning in the wilderness of my own despair.

Is this how I shall learn patience?

Is this how I shall learn fortitude?

Is this how I shall learn...

What can I learn from my own demise?

My life is a series of deep conversations. It was in 2003. It is in 2010.

When the conversations end... is there anything else?

My Egotistical Entitlement Issues

A few months ago, I went to a psychology department website and found the question: "At What Point is Life Not Worth Living?"

Since then, I have been evaluating what makes my own life worth living. In August, I came to the conclusion that Intimacy and Literature give my life value.

Recently, life has been teaching me how to do without.

January was a strange new beginning for me. For about a month, I moved out of my father's house. Without a job or a car, I slummed around trying to think of new ideas. I learned that the necessities that I take for granted are actually luxuries: heat, gas stove, electricity, running water, transportation, family, friends and coworkers.

In January, eight of the things I understood to be fundamental basics dwindled down to one, heat. And for a few weeks, I lived without the rest.

My father calls it "slumming" when people who are middle or upper-class act as tourists visiting other (lower income) areas solely for the experience of tasting disadvantage up close, before returning to the comfort of their own privilege.

While I know the term is usually reserved for whites trying to understand the plights of blacks, I wonder if my father would have called my January, "slumming".

I am probably the most spoiled person you will ever meet -- who doesn't have anything. It is my own ego, not my possessions, which grant me an heir of entitlement. For 24 years I never owned a car; for three years I haven't had steady work; I have no property, no income, and no investments; and honestly, most of the clothes that I own are over 15 years old.

And yet, nothing is getting through to me. Nothing.

For a week, I slept in a car. I felt as if I was perpetrating. I only slept in the car because it was closest to the library where I could read and check my email for free. If I would have absconded with my pride to a family member's house, I probably would have been even further away from resources.

Even though, I haven't found work -- I still don't feel as if I am struggling. I figure one day, an employer will call and hire me. I'll start saving again, paying off my defaulted debt, and return to the lifestyle of a 'boogie' middle class twenty-something year old.

Elders have said the my generation has 'entitlement' issues. I am certain that many would say that of me and my possessionless spoil. There is a part of me that looks at the 25-35 year olds who are moving up the respective ladders, and trying to figure out 1) where I went wrong, 2) what they are doing that I'm not and 3)how can I catch up.

I'm not a competitive person -- but I am always aware of who my competition is. I compete with myself. I am competing to be the best version of myself. Right now, we're both losing. While you should never compare your own life to the lives of your peers --- you have to, at least, be aware.

For years, I have been drowning in my own ignorance. I find it disgusting. I find my own myopia to be repulsive.

I have determined that the only time when life is not worth living is when physical bodily pain becomes so great, that no remedy will lesson its sting.

Emotional pain is hard to bear but my remedy is laughter. My life has become so pitiful it is quite hilarious -- the proper material for a late night comedy skit or cartoon strip.

This April, it will be 13 years since Lee's suicide. And yes, I still count. I always said that one suicide is enough for a family. So even through the embarrassment of my own foolish short-sighted stupidity, I live on.