Black Girls be Coming Out

Happy New Year! I know it’s the 17th but I will be the obnoxious one to say Happy New Year til March. Me Nah Care! And what better way to start the new year than to come out!? No I am not talking about my sexuality even though I have some sinfully scrumptious home girls (Lana, Rell I’m lookin at ya’ll :-)). No I am talking about the blogger’s closest.

Today, January 17th, I came out to my friends and family as a blogger.  I was gonna do it at some point but being dubbed a “Fierce Female Blogger” by LC who runs Colored Girl Confidential pushed me to it (You can read the post here.) So I shared the post on Facebook so my FB folks could see and I posted this status:

I have a blog. Most of you dont know about it because I write about things that I may or may not want you to know about. But its 2013, I’m 23 years old and I write my truth. I refuse to apologize for my truth. So enjoy at your own risk 🙂

And then I got scared. Remembering why I chose to blog in secret to begin with. Not wanting to hold my tongue or consider my audience. Wanting to be free to express myself without tarnishing my good girl image. Thinking back on all the posts I wrote about my crushes, my politics, celibacy and sex. Oh shoot, SEX! So I wrote this:

P.S. Mom and Dad this post does not pertain to you. You two are barred from my blog. No really. Im serious.

But they are really not the worst of my fears. I thought of my ex. The one that I am trying to be friends with. And the posts, some rather recent, that I know, if he reads them, he will know are about him.

But I have told no lies here.  And even if that truth was only truth for a moment, it was real to me when I sat down at the computer.  And I refuse to apologize or feel guilty for that.

So to all the new subscribers, readers, visitors… HEY!!! I hope you enjoy yourself but Im not sorry if you dont. Because this is my little safe place on the internet.  So sit back, relax and join me on my journey. Or dont. Its all love either way.

Oh yeah, and one more thing, if you have any issue, complaint or comment please feel free to take it up with me. I’m a big girl. I cant handle it.

~The Management



Black Girls Be Dishing on the First Time

When most people talk about their first time they are talking about the first time they laid down with someone and found out what all the fuss was about. But Im talking about another first. The Real First.  The first time you take a dump at your boyfriend’s house.

As little girls we are taught that our bodily functions are nasty and should be kept as quiet and as untraceable as possible (all while our brothers belch and fart for the Olympic gold is gassiness).  So we grow up covering up our little mouths every time we burp and clenching our butt cheeks together so that we are not the culprit of oppressive odors. Except when we shop.  Quiet as its kept, store aisles are specifically designed so that women can release gases that they have been holding in all day and quickly walk away with a box of banana nut oatmeal as if it is on their shopping list even though they know that they are allergic to bananas…. or maybe that’s just me (>_>)….. (<_<)….. (>_>)…..

So when we get older and we start dating, we confuse bubble guts for butterflies because we have been bound up since the 8th grade and the Browns are divas and will only play in the Superbowl on home turf(Get it, Browns…Superbowl! I’m a 12 year old boy on the inside. Forgive me).  So a few things start happening 1) The New Boo is attractive and makes you feel all fuzzy in your nether region just like Steve Urkel did every time he turned into Stephan so your stomach is doing flips  2) The Olympic cross-room dive you do whenever he texts/calls is more calisthenics than you’ve done all year 3) New Boo is taking you out to eat to share great conversation, libations and greasy, cheesy goodness  and 4) Any light to heavy petting is getting your blood moving  which is kicking up the Cupid Shuffle in your intestines.  Needless to say, New Boo is doing a number to your digestion.

So you’re chillin with New Boo, watching movies (or maybe the movie is watching you *winkity wink wink*) and New Boo is rubbing up on your booty (if you’re into that) and you feel that oh too familiar feeling of bubbles on the back end so you clench your cheeks together. New Boo asks if you’re ok cuz he felt your soft sumptuous rump turn into a bag of bricks and you say in your cutest little voice, “I’m fine,” as you hope that those bubbles will travel right on up until you can discreetly release them. But they dont! Those bubbles stay right there like you owe them money and you gone pay what you owe! And what’s even worse you can feel that they brought their bigger, more troublesome enforces and they have no intention of leaving.  So now you are standing at the precipice of the biggest issue you have had to deal with thus far in your relationship with New Boo.  Will you do number 2 at his house?

You excuse yourself as you make your way to the bathroom in slow motion, replaying your entire interaction with New Boo.  The laughs, the stories and all the meals. WHY!?!? WHY LAWD!?!?! WHY DIDNT I ORDER THE SALAD!?!?!? You bemoan as you walk through the bathroom door.  You sit down on the throne, still in disbelief that this is what your life has been reduced to. “Its too soon”, you think.  “I dont even know him that well”. “Im not ready for this” (mind you, you know all about the diamond mole on his behind and that disturbing face he makes when he *clears throat*…yeah) but before you know it has started.  As soon as you hear the ploop! you flush the toilet with the quickness of a Black woman grabbing her slipping Church hat-wig 2 piece combo during a Holy Ghost dance break.  But even with the lightning fast reflexes, smells still linger so you search this bachelor’s bathroom for some spray, incense, candle, matches, AXE… Something!  You find the aerosol under the sink, turn the water on high and do your loudest, raspiest Chaka Khan impression of Tell Me Something Good to hide the sound of spraying.  But the spray gets in your throat as you wash your hands.  So there you are hacking up a lung and praying that no disrespectful scents wafted under the door.

Then you hear it. His footsteps walking towards the door.  Its the moment of truth.  Will he pass the test or diss you for taking a dump and make you take the sh**ty walk of shame? You open the door.  “Are you ok,” he asks with a look of genuine care and concern. “I’m fine,” you reply as you quickly shut the door behind you. You know, just in case.  “I paused the movie. It’s getting good.” Ahh, he’s so cute and oblivious to the major milestone that ya’ll just achieved. Number 2 with the New Boo, excuse me, Boyfriend. Because, whether he knows it or not, yall go to together. And he just might be The One.

Black Girls be Inspiring Other Black Girls

I am a devout reader of a friend and fellow Black Girl’s blog called Colored Girl Confidential ( I can call her my friend because we met in real life. I know right? People still do that O_O lol). Her blog always has great posts that uplift every aspect of my little Black girl life.  But every once in a while I will read something that stops me dead in my tracks and answers questions that I wasn’t bold enough to ask. Her last was one such post. It is titled “7 Things I Wont Need on My Next Birthday“.  I will try really hard not to give the whole post away but all of her 7 really hit home.

Number 4 is ” I wont need a… job.”  I am a 23 year old woman with a bachelor’s of fine arts in professional theatre with an acting concentration, which means I am broke.  But I am not poor. I am rich in creativity and potential and energy and its time for me to stop chasing “FT with benefits” and follow my purpose.  I have characters pounding away at my temporal lobe begging for release. And its time I let the little bastards have their own way.  So I am applying for theatre fellowships across the country so that I can make it happen, cap’n.

Number 5 is ” I will not need abs.” Abs are nice but what have they done for you late-ly? (You should have read that in your best Janet Jackson’s homegirl in the intro voice) Seriously though, if I havent learned anything else from social media is that our outward appearances dont make us happier, smarter, wealthier nor better people.  They dont even make us better looking really.  People are out here getting chose, getting jobs, creating opportunities, smiling, waking up and dying regardless of their BMI.  Im not saying Im going to forego all my good sense and go on a liquid diet of KFC gravy and Krispy Kreme doughnut glaze but I am going to love myself every day, at every phase and every weight.

Speaking of love, the one that really knocked my socks off, made me pause and remind myself to breath was Number 2 “To Love People Who Dont Love Me Back.” Ya’ll I’ve been struggling lately. I miss my “ex”. (Ex because we were never officially together but we were very much together.) Even with our lack of a title, he loved me and treated me better than any other man I gave the moniker “boyfriend”. He treated me with the utmost respect, he showed me loved me in all the little ways that really counted and he made me feel warm and happy in that substantial “we could do this forever” kind of way. Yeah, it was like that. But we ended things and though my head understands my heart still goes through stages of disbelief.  I have read relationship tips from all sound angles from my mother to the bible to Oprah and still I have not found peace in the situation. So when I read, “On my next birthday, I will not argue with people who say they don’t deserve me. I’ll assume they know what they’re talking about,” I felt like she had encroached into my private sanctum and used my misery for public consumption! I still havent decided what I am going to do about this situation. I guess thats for another day and another blog post…

And last but certainly not least, Number 1, I will not need “Apologies for Being Who I Am.” That deserves a moment of silence followed by this:


I have been holding back and not being my best self out of fear of what others might think/say/do/whisper/misinterpret and you know what that ends TODAY! Mattafact, nawl. That ends YESTERDAY!

I urge you to check out LC’s blog Colored Girl Confidential. Im sure it will inspire, ignite, delight and bless you as much as it has for me.

*2 chest pumps and a peace sign*

Black Girls Be Unpacking

This is the third and final post on this situation, this topic, this hurt (the other two are Black Girls Be Writing: Handle With Care and Black Girls Be Answering Their Own Questions). I just finished watching the film The Odd Life of Timothy Green and I was touched. Ok I balled my eyes out at the end and I need Puddin over at  to see it if she hasnt already. Without ruining the plot, it was about love and letting go.

I was already emotionally overwrought and then the end of the movie just shoved me over the edge and I checked my phone and had a message from my ex, the same one I’ve been talking about this week, his cousin sent me a message that said, “Just wanted to tell ya I love and miss ya.” (His cousin and eye grew up and were really good friends growing up) And in that moment it clicked. I got it.

So this is an apology.  I have been writing and creating this alternate reality where I was doing everything and giving my all and he just broke my heart because he wouldnt have me.  And though that may be my truth, it is not the reality of what happened.  I was wrong. And I was selfish.  Because instead of letting love live and breath, I wanted to box it up and hoard it. I wanted it on my terms and my own way.  But just because someone doesnt love you the way you want them to doesnt mean that they dont love you.  He loves his way and I love mine. We just couldnt find a middle.

We are not bad people.  We are just dynamically, extraordinarily human. And thats ok.

So I am cutting open the box that is my heart and my love.  Throwing back the curtains and unlocking all the doors so that love can flow effortlessly in, out and through my life.  Whether its a quick, fierce gale that comes and goes before I can lick my finger and figure its direction or a barely moving, muggy breeze that moves in, sets for a while and never really parts, I’m ready. And I welcome it all.

Black Girls Be Answering Their Own Questions

So… confession to you all. My last post Black Girls Be Writing: Handle With Care was not just a tender little holiday story, it was me playing out an idea I had about a very real situation in my life. Yeah, surprise surprise. I wrote that early this morning as I tried to finally decide if I would send my ex a seemingly innocuous gift for Christmas.  I sent it to my homegirls and posted it here, still trying to make a decision. And as soon as I released it into the digital world the answer was clear as day.  No. I will not. Final answer.

The simple fact that I am creating phony fan fiction for my own life and asking others what I should do is a clear indication that I should do nothing.  Just hold my peace. Its time for me to come to grips that he has made up his mind and stop giving him opportunities to change it. Opportunities that he doesnt  care to take advantage of.  He told me himself that he doesnt deserve me.  Its time for me to trust that he knows what he’s talking about.

Today, Thursday, December 20th, I am going to trust that what is mine is mine. That someone will love me in the present and on purpose.  That they will not skip in and out of my life when it suits them nor will they let me walk out of their life without a fight.  They will have what I need and be ready to give it.


Black Girls Be Writing: Handle With Care

She knew from the moment she saw the perfectly shaped box that she would send it. Knew.  As much as one who had teeter-tottered on the idea for months could know.  But she saw the box with the words “HANDLE WITH CARE” branded across the sides and she said this is it. It’s a sign. I’m meant to send it. So she hoarded the box away in her room as she procured the items that would fill it.

Gummy bears and root beer. And not just any gummy bears and not just any root beer.  The Black Forest 5lb bag of gummy bears and a 6 pack of Barq’s root beer.  It’s the specific details, the little things that must go in the box. Well and a letter.

But she went to the store to buy the perfect items to go into the perfect box she couldn’t find anything perfect enough.  It wasn’t the right brand or the right size.  She even bemoaned the lack of red gummy bears in one pack. Nothing was good enough.

So she abandoned her perfect gifts in the perfect box idea and decided to send a plantable card instead. She searched the hipster stores in her town but to no avail. It was a corny thought. Signing it, “May something grow from this,” or something equally trite and 9pm cable tv drama-ish.  It was also an allusion to the rose plant that she couldn’t keep alive.  It wasn’t the only thing that died that season.

Christmas was approaching and that box with that irritatingly common slogan glared at her from across the room; HANDLE WITH CARE. So she huffed, grabbed her coat and hit the streets.  At this point she couldn’t wrestle with the idea of perfection she was just trying to make it happen.  She bought 3 off brand bags of gummy bears and whatever root beer was on sale by the case at the gas station and headed home.

She grabbed the box from where it haunted her, crumpled up some wrapping paper for cushion, placed the candy and sodas in the box as artistically as one can and started to close the box.  She had just started to tape the box shut when she remembered it.  She grabbed her notebook, ripped the pages out while looking wistfully at the festive parchment she purchased for such an occasion as this. But she had no time.  So she grabbed the pair of shears she cut her hair with and trimmed the ragged edges. It’s the least she could do.

She rushed it to the post office, making it just in time.  The clerked asked her if she wanted to fill out the sender portion but she replied, “They’ll know.” She passed her perfect box off to the stranger in the uniform almost hoping it never reached its intended destination.


He wasn’t expecting a package but then again he never really expected anything.  So he was surprised when it was addressed to him and marked “Do Not Open Until Christmas”.  When he called his wife that day to speak to his son he asked if it was from him, she told him no and his mother did the same.  This made him even more curious about the mysterious package.  She crossed his mind like a flash but he shooed that improbable thought away like a fly in late summer.  It was bothersome and meant him no good.

Christmas morning came and though he felt the dull familiar ache of waking up to a childless home he was almost excited to open the mystery package.  He ripped the packing tape with bare hands and brute strength, just as she knew he would.  And as soon as he saw the contents, a knowing smile crept across his face.  So he grabbed a pack of candy and the letter and settled in on the couch.  And just as he was about to read the letter he reached for another pack, because he knew her.

Merry Christmas!!! I just wanted to send you a little something for the holiday. Something I knew you would like. So I hope you enjoy it.


Hey! I bet you weren’t expecting something from me but you were on my mind and I wanted you to know it. Because its Christmas time and you should let people know how you feel about them. Right?

I never was too good at this. Hi. I hope you are enjoying your little gift. You probably have your mouth full of gummy bears as you read this. But there is one more thing.  This year I am giving out confessions. My confession to you is that I still love you and I miss you in my life. I don’t know how what role we are supposed to play but I want you to be here and I want to be there for you.  I know we have discussed this with our heads, all the reasons why it cant and wont work but I want to discuss it with our hearts.  And all my heart knows is that you loved me better than any man I have ever known. 

The other night I dreamt that I was curled up next to you and you had your arm around me and we were watching Jr. play with another child and I kept clutching the corner of the table so he wouldn’t hit his head and you kept telling me he was fine. And in that moment I felt so warm and so right.  Then you got up and said you had to go and I realized it was just a dream and the dream started to crumble and fade and my heart was pounding and I was reaching out crying for you not to go. I woke up happy and upset and hurt and my skin was hot and I was alone and none of this matters to you does it…

You told me you don’t deserve me and for months I have been trying to figure out what that means.  I think I understand now.  You don’t deserve me because of things you have or haven’t done, do or don’t have. And if that’s what you mean, I resent it. Because it is inferring that I am the type of woman that will avail myself to a man because of his resume, his list of accomplishments. You of all people should know me better. I love you for who you are and nothing can change that. You have done more than enough to earn my love, my trust and my devotion.

So on this Christmas morning I am asking, do you want it? Do you Gregory Anthony Dean II, want my love and all that comes with? If you do, if you feel the way I feel, it is yours. But if you don’t, release me. Pack my heart and anything else of mine you have no use for and send it back.  Its no pressure and no rush, I just really need your honesty. That could be your gift to me.



He held the pages in his hand and studied them. The curl of her S and her big slanted M, a mountain carved by thousands of years of wind and yet stood strong to protect the rest of her name.  But most of all he was impressed that there was not a single tear stain.  And in that one missing element he knew that she had gotten stronger and that this was the last time.

He reached for his phone and heard that familiar voice before he had a chance to regret it.

                “Hello! Merry Christmas!”

                “Hey. I got your package…”