WANTED AD: Black Woman Best Friend

Wanted: Black Woman Best Friend

African American Woman in her late 20s seeking African American Woman in her late 20s who is also seeking an African American Woman in her late 20s as a BEST FRIEND. 

BEST FRIEND wanted for the following activities:
Hanging out and doing weird things like going to the museum, library, and other things that get us out of the house and away from our partners and babies. 

Discovering new cafes so we can pretend to be coffee and tea snobs, and take photos in different places to feel well traveled because at this time in our lives we don’t have enough money to travel but then again, maybe we could if we rearranged our priorities that we are too lazy to rearrange. 

Going shopping, but not spending too much money. Window Shopping skills a plus. The ability to try on clothes as if on the runway and tell-it-like-it-is when we try on something unflattering for our body type.

Willing to watch movies of all kinds, action movies to fight our inner aggressors, romance to get us teary eyed and sappy, scary movies to get our adrenaline pumping, drama for the EXTRA in both of us, cartoons for our inner child, and documentaries so we can be inspired to change our lives.

Gym rat buddies: Yoga and working out, but not too aggressive because sometimes I lack the motivation, or the self control, or I want to throw a pity party, or I just want to be fat for a weekend. Weight loss goals preferred.

Mom Friends: Babies around the same age preferred. Our littles can grow up together and be best friends or date each other or feel like they’re siblings or go to high school together, and then college, and then become successful together. Ages preferred: 9 months or maybe a year or maybe 3 years or hell, any age. 

Single ok but in-a-relationship preferred. Our partners can come to some of our events and pretend like they like each other, or maybe really like each other, or maybe become friends and we don’t feel so bad about leaving the kiddos with them while we go out to do all the things black mom friends like to do. What do they like to do? Suggestions preferred. Addendum: If single, knowledge of Stop-Me-When-I’m-Gushy preferred

Love for NOISE required. Willing to listen to non-stop chatter about books, writing, all things creative but also willing to say ‘shut up, you’re talking to much’ when needed.

Introvert or Extrovert allowed but fellow chatterbox preferred. Willing to chat for hours about random things, one converse flowing into another flowing into another and forgetting how we got there.

Preferably from America as similar experiences with the world makes for great camaraderie. Foreign Black friends also welcome, as opposing experiences with the world make for great camaraderie. The understanding that Black is our culture but it is not all that we are and willing to talk about this but also other topics. 

Political aspirations: The ability to chat about politics at the appropriate time but not all the time, or even some of the time. Actually as LITTLE time as possible. Knowledge of The-Right-Place-And-Time required.

Schedule:
Willing to meet up for events and activities. Not every day but more than once a month. Willing to text or message. Not every day but more than once a week.

CNF: To An Old Roommate, I’m So Sorry

I’m sorry I wasn’t the roommate I was supposed to be. I needed to be slutty and hot and sweet and sexy and wholesome and rich and innocent and snobby. I’m sorry I let you drag me along, open door policy, knocking on doors around the dorm to introduce myself to random people on our floor, tossing hair over shoulders.

I’m sorry I flinched away at that tossed hair. That I wanted a bob that barely passed my chin, that when I tucked it behind my ear guys said I looked adorable. I’m sorry that you got that angry look in your eyes when guys said that even though I was shy I was the friendlier of us two. I’m sorry that guys said they’d rather date me than date you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the roommate I was supposed to be.

I’m sorry that you said ‘this is a secret, don’t tell anyone’ to so many people that it was no longer a secret. I never said anything to anyone. I’m sorry I kept your secret and let people think you were the sweet one and I was the evil one. I’m sorry that there had to be a difference between the two of us.

I’m sorry that you moved out because others, on the floor, wrote SLUT on the door in big black letters that seemed to dig into the board. I’m sorry that when I spoke up – I’m still a virgin – everyone knew that the SLUT was you. I’m sorry that when you left I shut my door, no more open policy, and I retreated into myself.

I’m sorry for lowering my head, and my eyes, whenever I saw you in the halls because when you left you moved down the hall and I had to see your smug face every day. I’m sorry that after our roommate split, our mutual friends had to choose between us and they eventually chose you because your lies depicted me in a false light. I’m sorry that I didn’t correct them. After a certain point, I didn’t care anymore. I just wanted to do well in school even though I knew, that November, it was already too late.

I’m sorry that I trusted you to keep your word. That when you, and the other supposed friends, lied to me he was able to do what he did. I’m sorry that when I opened the door and saw him standing there – the one who had hit me before but claimed he’d been drunk- I let him in. I’m sorry that I was angry at you for not being truthful. For because you didn’t come – which you’d told him you weren’t – he held me down and slapped me around. I’m sorry that he laughed as he ground his pelvis into mine. Our clothes tugging and pulling between us, the buckle of his belt leaving a deep impression into the soft skin of my belly. 

I’m sorry that I couldn’t move, though I always thought I would, and I’m sorry I thought of you. My eyes were closed so tight and I also thought of my childhood. I thought of when I was a child and one of the teens pushed her hands between my legs and I couldn’t say no, didn’t know better than to say no. I thought of when I was even younger and was burned in my scalp with cigarette butts. I relive that pain everyday that I hide the scars in my head. As I lay there, letting him paw me, I thought of my brother slapping me, punching me, kicking me down. I thought of being told I was too ugly to be loved or cared for. I’m sorry that I remembered when I was seven suicide was on my mind but I promised myself that I’d stay alive long enough to go to college, so I could learn amazing things and oh, how it would be to be on my own and to finally be safe. Feel safe. I’m sorry that I couldn’t move because my life flashed before my eyes and not the highlights – as it’s said to happen when near death but the dark parts of my life. They went by like a bullet train.

I’m sorry that because you lied to me, he did this and I thought of all that when I was supposed to be past it. When I was supposed to be healed. When having gone to college and starting a new life for myself was supposed to be different. Despite some of your behavior, I didn’t think you would want this for me. I didn’t think you told him to come over and do this to me. Did you? Did you tell him to come teach me a lesson? I’m sorry but I never learned it.

I’m sorry that when I finally punched him, with a weak hand, I thought of you. I thought of how you lied to me and how because of that he was able to do what he did. I’m sorry for never speaking up about him despite being so afraid I rarely left my room and flunked two of my classes that semester. I’m sorry that every day I would see him in the elevator and he would look at me with one eyebrow raised as if to ask me if I’d told on him yet. I would take in a shaky breath and blow it out so slow and so silent that I wasn’t sure I was doing it at all.

I’m just so sorry. I hope you can forgive me for not being the roommate I was supposed to be.

Good Readdance,
Jade
(creative non-fiction – written for a school assignment – still revising)

Led Me Here

After graduating from high school, it took me four years to move from Missouri to Florida. Four years to get away.

Being left behind scares me, still. 

Catapulted from the present to the past, I’m often held prisoner by my mind. 

Don’t let me go. 

Ever felt like you’re so happy you can’t do anything but cry? Tears of true joy fall, deep breaths get deeper, teeth like piano keys. It’s a wild look of jubilance. 

Fall in love. 

Girls should close their legs. Don’t let the man in, don’t let the Devil in, she said. 

How do you move an immovable object?

Isn’t it funny how leaving doesn’t always mean you’ve left? 

Just in case you didn’t know, contrary to your words, I know I can. 

Kites wave wildly through the wind in Missouri. Like Dreams, they snap free, and in their free fall they die. 

Let me go, please. Please?

My mind is a mystery to me. Often times I wonder if I’m too stupid to understand or if I’m just brilliant. 

Not everything the light touches is good. 

Obviously, things go well. They aren’t always bad. It ebbs and flows. Well, it ebbs more than it flows. At least it used to. Lately, the flow has pulled me along on a litter made from my hopes and dreams. There they are again…dreams. 

Possibly a good time to stop here as the further I fall into this deep hole the further I’d have to climb myself back out, later, when I’m lucid. Lucid? Lucidity? Ludicrous? Lame? Liar? Layered? Lucid.

Q …

R…

S…

T…

U…

V…

W…

X…

Y…

Z…

The words fill me up but I can’t make them come out. 

They strangle me, dark tendrils of ink wrap around my neck and fill my throat. Fill me up starting at my mouth, working down to my toes and out from underneath my nails. 

However, I can’t continue. The letters sit in their jar, waiting for me to put them in order, to assign them a meaning. 

Later, when I’m lucid.