Four Shots to the Heart

There are two songs that I feel almost accurately describe me and my life. This is one.

Get It Together by India Arie

One shot to your heart without breaking your skin
No one has the power to hurt you like your kin
Kept it inside, didn't tell no one else
Didn't even wanna admit it to yourself
And now your chest burns and your back aches
From 15 years of holding the pain
And now you only have yourself to blame
If you continue to live this way

[Chorus:]
Get it together
You wanna heal your body?
Get it together
You have to heal your heart
Whatsoever you sow you will reap
Get it together

You can fly fly

Dark future ahead of me
That's what they said
I'd be starving if I ate all the lies they fed
Cause I've been redeemed from your anguish and pain
A miracle child I'm floating on a cloud
Cause the words that come from your mouth
You're the first to hear
Speak words of beauty and you will be there
No matter what anybody says
What matters most is what you think of yourself

[Chorus]

The choice is yours
No matter what it is
To choose life is to choose to forgive
You don't have to try
or hurt him and break his pride
Just shake that weight off
And you'll be ready to fly

One shot to your heart without breaking your skin
No one has the power to hurt you like your friends
Thought it would never change but as time moved on
That ugly duckling grew up to be a swan
And now your chest burns and your back aches
Because now the years are showing up on your face
But you'll never be happy
And you'll never be whole
Until you see the beauty in growing old
[Chorus]
[chorus]
you can fly fly fly fly...
you can live or you can die
you know that life is a choice you make
you can give or you can take

you can fly fly fly fly
you can fly fly fly fly...

22 Papercuts

I am severely annoyed by people who believe that they are superior in intelligence because they hold an opposing view to the norm. Black people, for example, who do not support President Obama for some reason believe that they are extraordinary intellects and the rest of us are band-wagoners. Or black people who prefer alternative to R&B somehow believe they have superior music tastes. Get a grip on life. It is first and foremost disrespectful, counterintuitive and self-hating to assume that the only reason why black people support Obama is because he's black. He is also a democrat, which is the political identity of most self-aware black Americans; get a clue. Secondly, to assert that "white music" is better than "black music" is an ideology straight from the plantation. For someone who claims to posses so much intellect and 'class', you sure haven't come very far from the fields.

I am secondly annoyed by men in general. Sometimes I wish I born a lesbian. I've had two guys just this week who are trying to "talk to me" tell me how intimidating I am. That is not attractive, guys. I am not attracted to a "man" who is easily intimated by a 5'4" 125 pound 18 year old. I know I can be aggressive, I know I can be outspoken, I know I can be challenging. I'm not looking for a punk ass "man" who cowers away from that, someone who would need me to tone down my Conz-factor in order to protect their "manhood." Frankly, you sound like a bitch. I also don't understand why guys don't understand about "I do not want a boyfriend." "How could you not want a boyfriend?" Besides the OBVIOUS reasons, like the fact that I'm 18, the fact that I'm a double-major, the fact that I'm questioning the motives of monogamy, I'm at a different point in my life than most, and I'm looking for something most 19-21 year old men aren't capable of giving (besides one, who is so far away), and I'm MUCH too young to settle.

Finally, I am most annoyed by the race relations on this campus. As much as I love being here, I really hate being here. I hate being the only person of color in my classrooms. I hate having to be a spokesperson for my race. I hate having to constantly prove that I am here because of my 3.8 GPA, because of my 2040 on the SATs and my 30 on the ACTs, because of my leadership positions, and my writing abilities and not because of my race. I hate raising a point, only to have it ignored, and then praised when raised again by a blue-eyed girl. I hate being asked how I "got my hair like this." I hate having to say, "Detroit really isn't that bad." I hate having to defend the need for Black Student Union and Black Welcome Week. I hate being looked at as "sticking with my own" when I hang out with black kids. I hate being the token black girl when I hang out with white kids. I hate being Black Life 101 to 90% of the white people I meet. I hate being gawked at when I'm in the multicultural lounges with my friends. I hate the snickers. I hate the stares.

Some white guy once asked Helen if she could teach him gang signs. A group of white girls asked Kalisha if she could teach them how to dance. A white guy told Amanda he was going to a put a "natural habitat" sign outside of the multicultural lounge. The comments are sly, and underhanded, but the meaning behind them and the effect of them are the same. And I'm tired of it.

Vigesimation

Today I participated in a pro-Palestine rally outside of the Union. The crowd was tiny, probably due to the short notice and the bone-chilling weather. By time I left, I couldn't feel my toes. But it felt good being there.

"One two three four, when are we going to end this war? What do we want? Freedom! When do we want it? Now!"

A few teenaged girls lined the road with signs that read, "Honk for peace!" Next to them stood a young girl, maybe nine or so, with a sign that read, "How many more children must die?"

It reminded me of what someone said in response to the hostile and aggressive actions taken by Israel. "If Palestinians loved their children more than they hated Israel, this would not happen." At the time, I was far too disgusted to formulate a coherent response.

It seems to me, that Palestine does love its children. It loves its children enough to fight endlessly for their freedom, for their security, for their right to liberty, peace and ownership. To not love them would be to allow them to live under the cruel oppression of Israel without putting up any fight.

Something in me dies when people can blame the plight of the murdered on the murdered, and not the murderer.

Five six seven eight, Israel is a terrorist state.

Silver Lining

Life Lessons Learned Three Days into Second Semester:

• Food is one hell of a drug. This is proven by the fact that an entire six of us, without having to convince anyone, walked to NYPD Pizza at 3am during a blizzard.
• I have a huge tendency to flirt a lot and lead people on. Which is now why I have to ignore phone calls, and texts, and outright dodge an angry lesbian named Toni. "Whoops. Did I forget to mention I'm not gay?"
  
• I have a huge tendency to lose interest in people who I'm not forced to be around. Which is now why I have to ignore phone calls, and texts, and outright dodge an angry lesbian named Toni. "Whoops. Did I forget to mention that you were an eight hour boredom reliever?"
• Alcohol isn't for everyone. Either I have a very high tolerance for alcohol, or I simply did not drink enough. Either way, alcohol, as I long suspected, isn't for me. Here I am bright eyed and bushy tailed, in a room full of half drunks singing Lean On Me. I was simply flabbergasted.
• Giving a guy your number will not make him go away. So, I foolishly assumed that when a guy sweats you at a club, if you give in and give him your number, he'll move on to another girl. Quite the opposite. Once you give him the digits, he will attach himself to you like a leech.
• I am mean. Or at least others tend to believe so. But of all the things I wish to change about myself, that is not, nor will it ever be, on the list. The thought of purposely acting a way that is unnatural to appease others makes my stomach turn. Get in where you fit in, or get out.
  
• Men are dogs. (Well, duh.) But when a guy dancing with a girl and getting her number snatched his phone and pushed her away like she was two-day old meat, and then tried to grab me, it was confirmed.
• Gay clubs are not that fun for fag hags. In fact, they're not very fun at all, and sometimes a bit disturbing. Gay men tend to.. make connections fast. And if you stand in the right spot, they'll make said connections two inches away from your lucky face. Besides that, the music sucks, and you stick out like a sore thumb. And I suppose having to dodge an angry lesbian didn't help.
• Clubs discriminate. We've all seen on television bouncers picking out certain girls to get in, and rejecting others. Just television? False. There was at least a hundred to a hundred fifty people outside of the club when I got there, and more arriving constantly. Maybe fifty of us got in. And they didn't do it by first come, first serve. The cost was $15, but if you didn't have exact change you either paid $20, or $10. Let's just say I had $10 for pizza after, but the football player after me was a bit irate about not getting any change back.
• If you like to go to parties, don't live on North Campus. There are no frats on NC, no clubs on NC, no parties at all on NC. And I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that bringing your ass all the way down to Central and then still having to walk a distance in the snow isn't that pleasant. North Campus sucks.
• Michigan football players get heckled everywhere. When a group of them pushed through and got in the club, the crowd demanded to know how all of a sudden they knew how to push.
• Brandon gets tipsy/drunk, and Constance gets very annoyed. I can't even explain it. You'd have to witness it for yourself.
  

Six Billion Years

Sometimes it's hard for me to put everything into true prospective, because once I do, I no longer feel the ambition and drive for much, besides the pursuit of my own happiness and fulfilling the happiness of others.

A nice house, a prestigious career, it seems so meaningless.

One day, I'll be dead. One day, any and everyone whose life I may have affected will also be dead. One day, any person I've ever known, or any one who's ever heard of me, perhaps read of me, or saw me on TV, too will be dead. The Earth, in fact, will die, one day.

Our buildings, statues and mansions will be engulfed in gaseous flames. Our national boundaries will be blurred and then crumbled. Our history, erased. Our memories, gone.

One day, nothing will matter. Nothing at all.

And yet we worry so much, so hard and so long over things that are comparably ridiculously minuscule. We fight wars and slaughter the innocent over what is effectively nothing. We hate over differences that in the stretch time do not exist.

And we encourage stressful lifestyles, ones that are expensive to acquire and expensive to maintain. Lifestyles that require extensive education, extensive seclusion and elitism, and excessive hardship. Lifestyles that, even at their very best, will not protect you from the inevitable fate of everything.

We cry over pain that will more than fade. We worry over troubles that will more than pass. We agonize over a nonexistent future.

But in the prospective of things, it seems as though we shouldn't have much time for anything but happiness, expression and connection.

Everything will be over soon. Are we really getting what's best out of it?

Huit Poulets

As much as I hate conforming to social rules that I completely disagree with, I've finally settled on not getting my tattoos on my wrists, nor on the flesh between my thumb and index finger. Instead I'll get it on my lower neck. It shall be a peace symbol, 'and' symbol (&) and a heart. Peace & Love. It'll be very small, the 'and' symbol being smaller than the other two, and completely in black. I haven't yet decided whether I want the heart filled, or not.

Then once I get to the highest level of success that I wish to achieve, I'll get a big "Fuck The Man" on my forearm. And I kid.

Speaking of society, next semester of college is going to put up one hell of a fight, if I decide not to change my schedule. And though I know my academic adviser, and my academic peer adviser, and my academic success partner will probably suggest that I do, I'm not sure if I want to. For one, the three courses that I am enrolled in are absolutely, fabulously, completely amazing. The course work will be rigorous, but the topics are just to die for, if you're a lover of the penal system, Iran and West African cultures, like me. Also, I want to know what if feels like to be truly challenged in school. And not just challenged because I'm a chronic procrastinator, but challenged even when I'm giving my all.

I've never felt that, in school, before.

Raw Suede

Most people who know me, and some who don't, always comment on my mental strength. "You are so strong."

When I was younger, I spent a lot of time at my mom's foster mother's house. I had one of those play kitchens; it was in her living room. It was charred and practically unrecognizable when her house caught fire, though not much else was that ruined. I used to think that because of that, the fire was the fault of me, and my little play kitchen.

That house used to sit on West Outer Drive, but it's not there anymore. If you drive by, you'll notice a house-wide gap between two houses, close to the corner. That's where it used to be. But it was torn down by the city.

It was in that house where I was first molested by her. I was only four. Like most molesters, she told me not to tell, told me I would be punished, beaten, but not believed, and that next time would be worse. But unlike most molested, I didn't believe her. I knew that if I told my mom, she would believe me. She would rescue me. I would never have to see her again.

But I was wrong, and she was right. And I was punished and beaten for such lies. And the next time was worse. And the time after that was worse. And the time after that. Worse. I am still called a liar to this very day for telling her what happened.

My dad worked during the day, and during the day my mom cheated on my dad. So it was there that I had to go. Until I was nine. My friend Ashley was over for the summer. My brothers were 4 and 2. My mom asked if I wanted to go to her house, or stay at home alone. I knew how to cook for us, I knew how to change diapers. Staying home was the only option. Ironically, it was that day, the day that I was not molested, that child protective services was called to our house. The police came and knocked on our door, told me we were coming with them. Back then we had iron bars on our doors that could only be opened with a key. I pretended I couldn't find it as I called my neighbor and begged her to come and pretend she was our babysitter. She did, and that saved us.

But I was still beaten, because perhaps they were called because we were too loud. I tried my best to quiet my brothers. But I was nine.

When my mom's biological mother tried to stab me in a crack-induced rage when I was also four, I never told anyone. I didn't want to be called a liar again.

Ever since I was four, I've been hurt. My entire life. I've been molested, beaten, stabbed, and kicked out of the house, before the age of 13. I've been self-destructive, and suicidal, depressed and mute. But in the end, I've been strong, because I've had to be.

But through it all, I haven't been bitter. Though my mom and I are not close, I still love her and I've long forgiven her. I still visit my grandmother, and help her re-bandage the wounds on her legs, or help her find the Jewish egg bread she likes at the grocery store.

I guess being strong isn't just about survival.

Reaching Dawn

I find it disturbing that someone can have such a large capacity to intentionally hurt others. It astonishes me. It scares me.

I remember it was around 4am, Tuesday morning, December 30th, and my head was throbbing. I laid facing the couch; you draped an arm around me. India told you to stop, but you wouldn't move. I remember you kissing my neck. I remember you forcing me to turn around and face you.

I asked you why you were so upset with me, but you didn't really answer, just said that I have negative things to say to you. I reminded you that you say negative things about people all the time, but you said, "But never about you." I remember holding your face between both my hands, and looking you in the eyes. I remember exactly what I said. "You know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you. Never. But I'm sorry for whatever I said that did." You told me I didn't have to apologize. But I did again. And then I jokingly took one of them back.

Your phone had to have rang at least five times; you were late picking up your step-dad from work. But you wouldn't get up. You wouldn't let me go. You wouldn't stop kissing me.

So you can imagine my surprise when I find a message in my honesty box telling me to read your blog. You can imagine the look on my face when I did. You can imagine my hurt because you manufactured it, purposely.

My brain, and text inbox, was flooded with, "You just don't deserve this. I don't understand."

I don't understand. As much as I never want to look in your face again, as much as if you never spoke to me again it would be much too soon, I could still never do something like this to you. I could never hurt you this way. Because I once loved you. I once cared. I once considered you a friend.

But I know now that you never loved me.