My daughter has never had her own room. Immediately after her birth, we shared a nursery and a few months after that she was moved into her big brother’s room. I’m sure she’s dreamed of her own space since her days in the womb! Recently, we moved into a new home and the most exciting part of the move was knowing that I’d get to decorate my daughter’s room!
To cut cost, because buying a house is EXPENSIVE, I decided to repurpose everything we already owned for her room makeover. Kids are destructive, and too often do parents spend money for elaborate room decorations and furniture just for the kids to break it! I didn’t want to be that mom.
I sought room decor ideas from Pinterest. I like to think of Pinterest as the little encouraging angel that sits in my shoulder reminding me that, “anything is possible.” And it is! I found several ideas for inspiration!
I already owned a lot of bohemian furniture so the boho theme was definitely a no brainer. No matter your style, finding a theme is poignant. Your theme is the overall goal for the space. Within that theme, you can play around with colors and style!
Another goal I had for her room was to make it practical and light. I didn’t want my daughter to feel like her room was crowded or too perfect for play. I kept decorations light and fun!
To add some character to her walls, I purchased polka dots to create an accent wall. Overall, her room makeover cost $10! That’s it!
Remember, you don’t have to be rich to live the life you want! Repurpose what you have! Create new memories with old things in your home! Most importantly, think twice before you throw things away!
“The optimist sees the donut, the pessimist sees the hole.” ― Oscar Wilde
As a freelancer, you get accustomed to the word no. Even if it’s not said directly, you can take the hint when a piece you’ve written gets rejected from a publication. It can be discouraging, but I’ve learned that for every no, there’s a yes. When you consider the millions of publications around the world, one measly rejection email from one out of a million other publications seems minuscule.
In all transparency, I didn’t always possess this optimism. As a matter of fact, I was apprehensive to share my work for a long time. For a while, I didn’t. Consequently, when my last writing gig fell through, I felt like that experience reflected my talent as a writer. I questioned my talent and abilities.
So, imagine my astonishment when a friend reached out to me about a writing job. This friend is an established writer with a pretty impressive resume. Her considering me for ANY job in my eyes was/is an honor. (For the past months, she’s been a driving force of encouragement and light.) I’ll be forever grateful for her kindness.
She asked me to write an article covering Black hiker’s week on Instagram. I did. I conducted interviews with the curators of the movement and managed to write and submit the piece before the deadline. (All while mothering my two little ones) Immediately after receiving my article, I received the green light for layout. A few days later, I was submitting my invoice and W9!
While I sat on the same bed I once shed tears on now writing for a bigger publication than my last; I had an epiphany. Last month I was distraught about my last writing gig disrespecting both me and my writing. Of course I knew that experience wouldn’t permanently hinder my writing career, but that didn’t make the trial any less hard. To be sitting in the same spot I once bawled my eyes out, now ok’ing article edits in a real deal publication felt like the biggest HAHA to the ones who doubted me—to the ones who hurt me.
Right then and there I heard God’s voice loud and clear. “Be still and know that I am God!” (Psalms 46:10) I’m unsure of why I hadn’t heard Him before. I’m sure this wasn’t His first time telling me to trust Him
While I had been questioning the reason, “why,” at my last job, God was orchestrating a plan—a major one! He needed me STILL and PATIENT so that I could prepare for my next task. The irony of it all was that just last month, my “Pro-black article” was too Black to be published in my old publication. Yet, my that article that was just published in Outdoor Retailer was Black as hell and in company with other beautiful Black stories.
To whoever’s reading this, remember to be still and patient, because although you’re weary and even a little anxious, your current set back is apart of a major comeback!
Seeing my name in Outdoor Retailer’s latest weekly issue was a reminder that things are always working for my good (Yours too) by the grace of God! Let today serve as a reminder for you to be as still as an anxious Amazon Prime shopper anxiously waiting by their door for the postman to deliver their package. Stay where you are and let God deliver (to) you!
It’s not that police brutality or the mistreatment of African Americans in America is new; it’s that before, I didn’t feel the same urgency to consider and protect, until I became a wife to a black man and a mother to black children. I’ve been black all my life yet I didn’t become vocal about black rights—human rights until I became pregnant with my son. It was in 2015 when I was welcoming new a life while many black parents like the parents of Sandra Bland were saying goodbye to a life.
Though pregnant, I hadn’t really comprehended what it meant to mother while black. I remember reading about Sandra Bland and acknowledging that her treatment was unjust, but still being unsure of the possible truth behind the evil accusations made against the police department. I couldn’t fathom such cruelty in modern times. I just couldn’t.
It wasn’t until I experienced the first disregard to my little black baby’s life that I realized, white society doesn’t feel the same urgency to respect or nurture black lives.
“It’s no big deal,” the nurse said to me rolling her eyes as I nervously ask her what was next. With little regard, the nurse pointed to the hospital gown I was to get dressed in and exited out the room. I dressed in my hospital gown to deliver my baby boy prematurely. Although Liam was full term, he was induced 3 days early due to lack of amniotic fluid.
“No big deal,” I thought. If it was no big deal, why was I being wheeled across the hospital and being told to remain calm? Why did my baby need to be born today if this was in fact, “no big deal.” It was in that moment when my body was consumed with fear, my mind monopolized by hypotheticals, and my family still 2 hours away from comfort that I realized, I, the black mother of this black baby had to advocate for his life—our life. The nurse with her biases treated me and my unborn child as nuisances. In those moments I quickly grasped the meaning of what mothering while black would entail.
That interaction shaped how I parent and love my son. It shaped how I maneuver in life. In that same hospital days after my son’s birth I remember a doctor’s astonishment that my son had a present father in his life. “Oh, he has his father’s last name,” the doctor asked with a raised brow. Liam, my sweet baby boy hadn’t even settled in this world, yet somehow society had already written his story.
So when I hear of stories about sweet brown baby boys now black men like Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd, my heart doesn’t just break, it shatters. These men’s mother’s looked at their babies the same way I look at mine. The bond between mother and child is well established before the child enters the world and being a black mother to a black child enhances that bond times 10. Everything leading up to birth has been calculated, well thought out, and understood. For instance, black mothers know that the maternal rate for them is abnormally high. So a lot of consideration goes into choosing the best hospital to deliver. Black mothers understand that schools aren’t picked based solely on zoning. The school your child goes to has to be racially diverse enough to empathize with black plight, but white and wealthy enough to offer better opportunities. Black mothers understand that although they bring life into the world, they too have to acknowledge that there’s a possibility that at anytime life might be stolen from them by the hands of authority.
I’m scared to let my babies grow up, “as if I have a choice.”
I’m scared to let my babies “just be a kids,” “as if they have that choice.”
I’m scared to send them out into the world, “as if I have a choice.”
I’m scared for white society to be scared of them because of the color of their skin, “as if they have a choice.”
Times like this I question God. I do. Why? Why is this happening? Why is this still happening? Why is it happening to people of color?
My son matters. My husband matter. My daughter matters. I matter.
Today I have no powerful words or insight to share, because the truth is, I’m just scared.
The first vivid memory that I have of my mother is when she sent me to stay with my grandmother after my brother was born. The memory serves as small flashbacks; suddenly, my mother was rushed to the hospital to give birth to my baby brother, at one point I was asleep on a visitor’s chair in the hospital lobby. Next, I was handed a box of orange juice by a nurse, and the last thing sketched in my memory is my aunt’s car pulling out my grandmother’s driveway, and me, a newly promoted sister, 5 years old, watching as the car sped away. No one really explained what was happening. I was left to assume that mommy had gotten a new baby and no longer needed her old one.
Before my baby brother, my mom treated me somewhat like a burden. She took me places, and she bought me things, but often times, it felt like a tired routine that she was over performing.
I remember walking into my grandmother’s house the day my mom welcomed my new brother. The blinds were open to let in sunlight, but the eerie of truly believing that my mother was getting rid of me tented my vision with the darkest gray. Grandma’s house was dark both literally, and figuratively. My mom and my grandmother were never close. My mom had made it clear that she didn’t approve of my grandmother’s parenting. Knowing this while standing with my luggage in my hand at my grandmother’s front door solidified the feeling that my mother didn’t care about me.
Feelings of abandonment, and uncertainty consumed 5-year-old me, and even after my mom retuned to pick me up from grandma’s house (after what felt like a few years later,) the feeling of rejection never subsided.
I spent the latter part of my childhood desperately trying to gain attention from my mother. Any attention was welcomed, no matter how it was rendered. I gave my mom a hard time in elementary school, talking out in class, and constantly finding myself in disappointing situations. Although I didn’t always know why I behaved the way did, I remember just wanting to be seen, heard, and loved.
Old age and spankings quickly taught me that good behavior offered the best attention given to me by my mom. So, I took heed, and became an angel child. My favorite pastime was being around my mom on those “good behavior days” in front of company. An audience fed my mom’s desire to appear as a doting mother, and with every ounce of praise she received, my mom performed harder. These performances never mattered to me. I was always overly eager to indulge in any affection offered to me by her. This temporary acknowledgement that came with these shows was always worth it. People would eat up her act, and that made her perform even better. Our relationship was never organic, but situational. I knew this, but I didn’t dare accept it.
When I became a pregnant with my first child, I remember feeling lost—mostly unsure. I knew failed parental relationships dwelled deep within my family. I understood that the only way that I’d know if I had inherited this cancerous trait was after I too became a parent, vulnerable and new. It was only logical that I address my childhood traumas with my own mother before I could ever be someone else’s mom.
After my son was born, I fell into the deepest love with him. He was perfect in every way; I awaited the moment that I would fail to make him feel loved in the same way that my mother did to me. Late feedings would end with me mesmerized by a face belonging to a being that I loved more than myself. Acknowledging this admiration for my child, conjured unanswered questions as to why my own mother didn’t feel this way about me. The ache of not knowing the answer to my question began to haunt me. I was never alone in my thoughts, because every moment I was granted time to think; the ghost of, “why” persisted a fixation. The question “why” took the form of my child. Despite my baby being alive, they question, “why” haunted my child’s very existence. My son became a ghostly reminder of the love I always wanted but would never get.
I didn’t know what to do, so I continued to do what I had been doing for the past couple of months; I nurtured him, I fed him, I talked to him, and most importantly I loved him—so much. My haunted baby might have become the Casper I never wanted to encounter, but still, I couldn’t fathom even a ghost feeling alone. So, I became a ghost whisperer and as soon as I started to accept my new norm, something happened. One day, I looked down at my son’s face, he once Casper, no longer looked ghostly. In fact, he looked new. It was as if I was meeting my son and he was meeting his mother, for the first time.
In this realization, I felt as if chains had fallen at my feet–invisible shackles broken. The ghost that once consumed my child was gone. Before I could fully wrap my head around what just happened, I had an epiphany. In that moment of cradling my baby boy in my arms, I realized what that ghost symbolized. It was a ghost from my past, a generational curse. When it realized that it had no place in my home—my life, it concluded that it had no ability, no power! By giving my son the selfless and pure love that I never had, I was discontinuing a long viciously and unhealthy family cycle. Selfless love had broken my family’s generational curse. I was free of burden! We all were. The ghost of my past no longer had a place to fester or feed. So, when the ghost and I realized that, I was immediately emancipated.
On that day, that’s how I became the mother I never had.
Have you ever felt like somebody got over on you? Like, you gave this person all you had, yet they stabbed in the back and deserted you–turned on you. We’ve all had that feeling. Whether it was an old ex, a family member or friend, we’ve all been let down by someone we cared about. After the perpetrator’s egregious acts, we usually sit back and think about all the things we did for them. “I did this.” “I did that.” In the end, we end up feeling lost, angry even. We feel used!
What comes next depends on your spirituality, if you’re still in you’re Simon stage, you just might get even–curse the other party, the (bleep) out. If you’re in your Peter stage, you’ll take the high road. No matter the phase you take, you’re hurting, because, “they used you!” But what if it wasn’t “them” who used you, but “He?”
God ￼knows everything before it happens. He places us where we need to be. Our flesh has taught us to think that He places us places we need to be for our own agendas, but sometimes He puts us in places others need us to be. Because God moves through people, He uses us to do His work–if you allow Him to anyway.
No long post today just a short and simple message. Instead of being hurt by what you think someone took from you, thank God for Him using YOU to SHARE what He GAVE you. Let God use you! Amen Jesus! ￼
Philippians 2:13 ESV
For it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.
Like most Americans, I’ve been dealing with depression for awhile. It’s a forever wave of sad and negative thoughts sometimes triggered by stress or trauma. One year, my depression got so bad, I called the suicide helpline. It wasn’t that I wanted to commit suicide, I just needed direction. I knew that I refused to leave my family behind without trying, and I knew that I refused to give into to devil’s lies.
I sat sad in my dark room, cried and thought to myself about what things I could do in that moment to make me feel better—at least feel a little better. At the time, I was still newly postpartum with Liam. I didn’t feel beautiful, and was struggling with my new identity as a mom. I’ve always been a girly girly so I thought about ways I could improve my outer being, and in turn improve my inner. I started my weight lifting journey, started to make time for myself every 2 weeks to get my nails done and I made sure to wear clothes that made me feel sexy!
When I started doing these things, I started to feel good about me! I felt good and I looked good. I was making progress. It’s seems silly that me investing in cosmetic things helped my depression, but it was deeper than that! When I really examined my life, I was already doing to the hard stuff—completing the steps to achieve my larger goals. I was back in college, I was mastering motherhood and my marriage was on the ups. I realized that although my depressive thoughts directed me elsewhere, the real source of this wave of sadness was from not being happy with me. So, what better way to fix me than to invest in me, right?
When I found the source of my sadness, I was able to address it. My friends and family started to notice the change in my mood, and it felt good to be on top of Mt. Depression!
Depression sneaks in at our most vulnerable times, hoping to masks its minor issues in larger issues. Depression will make you feel like you’re not good enough, causing you to want to quit when in reality, an example source of your depression could derive from you being overwhelmed in school. Depression attaches itself to our subconscious and acts through our conscious. There’s so cure for depression, because depression was made by the enemy to plant doubt in a mind that already knows the truth. The truth is, depression can only take hold of you if you give it your hand. Don’t!
Cry, scream, pray and then sit alone in your thoughts! Write down how you’re feeling. Your feelings will most likely be lies like:
I’m not good enough.
No one likes me.
I’ll never get anywhere in life.
Beside those “feelings,” write down the truth depression doesn’t want you to know.
I am enough!
Jesus likes me, I like me!
It may be hard, but I’ll get there one day!
After that, think about what triggered your bad thoughts. Was it a falling out with a friend? Was it your job? What happened to send you in this downward spiral?
When you figure this out, compose a plan to change your situation. If it’s a spit with a friend, talk to them. If it’s your job, maybe it’s time to talk to your boss or find another place to work.
If you’re reading this, and think this sounds like too much to do, ask yourself if you’re ready to divorce depressive thoughts? Maybe you’re not ready to get better, and that’s ok. We have to remember that although no one asks for depression, it’s still our responsibility to climb out of the dark hole.
Try these steps, they helped me tremendously! Depression never leaves, it’s a silent attacker that attaches itself to your life when you’re most vulnerable. Be prepared. I use these steps each time I find myself in a bad place. It’s ok to take time to re-evaluate your situation. Depression will make you think you can’t beat it, but you can!
When depression makes its return and attack on my life, I 1.)find the cause of the relapse, 2.) I strategize on how to rectify the problem, and 3.) I rectify the problem!
Don’t let depression become bigger than you. I love you! Be happy lappy, not depressy lessy!
Hallelujah, I made it! The semester ended today and I’ve never been so relieved. This semester has been my toughest thus far. To make things more stressful than usual, I had to bring the kids to class with me for the last month of school. It’s one thing to drag 1 kid to class but imagine toting 2 humans around campus! Some days, I questioned my sanity!
Every college student knows that your semester grades aren’t official until finals are taken! Preparing and taking finals is like the last 5 minutes of a 30 minute cardio session; you’re almost to the finish line yet, you’re somewhere between motivated and over it! You experience thoughts like, “Eff it, I’ve done enough running for the day!” verses, “I’m almost there; only five minutes to go!”
I like to start my day off with prayer, coffee and a bomb theme song of the day. My theme songs vary from hot mess trap music to the holiest of gospel. It depends on my mood and what I need to hear to get me prepared for the day.
Did you know that the first sound you hear in the morning, dictates the progression of your day? Science has taught us that music plays a key in mood change. Constant examples of the powers of music are in movies and commercials, music tells us how to feel—how to move.
Because I know the stresses of finals and I want YOU to be great, I’ll share my favorite CRUNK songs that get me hype before every test life throws at me!
1. Truth Hurts by Lizzo
“I just took a DNA test turns out I’m 100% about to pass my exams!” Thank me later for the remix! Speak it over you life yall! Speak it in Jesus name!
2. Hustler by Cassidy
“Betta ask about me, I’m a hustler!” Yo, this song makes me feel like the Crim Dela creme, especially when I have the kids in the backseat! This song makes me feel undefeated and badass!
3.Unstoppable by Koryn Hawthorne
I’m a believer of speaking things over your life! There’s power in the tongue! When the devil throws a curve ball, I remind him of who’s child I am! I’m unstoppable because Jesus says so!
4. Diva (Homecoming) by Beyoncé
I lived for the entire HBCU themed Coachella show! I blast the album in my car while imagining myself marching on somebody’s field! This remix of Diva has the famous breakdown with O.T. Genesis’, “Everybody Mad’ “I’ve been getting too many A’s, everybody mad!” Again, thank me in advance for the remix. Call me DJ Chris. #AnotherOne
5. Follow God by Kanye
Call me crazy but, Ye’s new album has been a mood for the past couple of months. Follow God has simple but powerful words and my kids love the song too!
6. Before I Let Go by Frankie Beverly and Maze
Besides being every black family’s traditional cookout anthem, it’s something about belting out, “before I let you gooooahahaoooo,” in my car. It’s a feel good song and immediate mood changer!
7. Knuck if you Buck by Crimemob
This Negro spiritual makes my bones tingle! When the beat drops I feel my ancestors swaying in their graves. This song gets me hyped for any occasion! This song was on my birth playlist with Zora! No matter how old this gem is, when another person of color pulls up beside me and hears me blasting this in my car, they look over and give me a nod of approval because, they already know what time it is!
8. Ape Sh*t by The Carters
“Ima gorilla in a effin coupe, finna pull up to a zoo. I’m like Cheif Keif meets Rafikki, who been Lion King to you?” If that wasn’t the hardest line of Hov’s career, direct me elsewhere! This line alone paints the picture of my everyday life. I’m a young black queen attending a PWI. I’m fierce wisdom filled being, playing the game of life administered by my white counterparts. Aye!
9. Don’t you Worry Bout a Thing by Stevie Wonder
Tori Kelly’s version has taken over our home thanks to the movie Sing but I vowed to never let my kids erase the legend that is Stevie Wonder! Every so often when I need a sweet reminder to chill and let life be, I play this song!
10. If I Ruled the World by Nas ft Lauryn Hill
Taken from rap-up.com
Nas has taught us all a lot. He gives a brief history lesson all while empowering black excellence; reminding us that our lineage didn’t derive from slavery but of royalty. “If I ruled the world, I’d free all my sons;” the chorus sung aloud is me verbally manifesting the emancipation of generational curses and stagnation within my family! I also love singing Lauryn’s ad libs.
You’re the only one standing in the way of the goals you want to achieve! This semester may have started out rough, but you can end it strong! Good luck on finals! I encourage you to create your own finals playlist! Eat or get eaten! You got this!
Arguments with loved ones usually end up with both parties saying unflattering and hurtful things. We’ve been taught to excuse our loved one’s hurtful words, because they were only saying those things out of anger. Although, their maybe some truth to this theory, you can’t help, but to wonder if these “mean and hurtful words” were deep rooted truths our loved ones only had the opportunity to share when they had the “free card” to do so. So, we consciously ignore the mean words but subconsciously we dwell on them, because no matter how hard we try to deny our loved ones words, we have an inkling that some of what they said is true.
Therapy and popular social media feel good memes would say to suppress those negative thoughts about yourself, because you are light and perfect in every way. I’m calling this mindset bull crap. You are not perfect in every way. No one is. This way of thinking encourages us to live counterproductive lives in denial. In order to live truth you have to face truth—you have to hear the truth. I’m not saying everything mean said to you is right or reflects your character, but I am saying, if you’ve heard the same things multiple times, maybe there’s some validity to those words.
Look in the mirror. Accept the good parts and bad parts of you. Ask yourself is there any truth to what you’ve heard about you. Fix the broken parts of you. Love you through it all.
A recent spit made me address a part of me that I was forcing myself to ignore. Confession: I’m very critical of others. Because I’m critical of myself, I tend to judge others as harsh as I judge myself. This isn’t right and I wanted to believe that this ugly truth wasn’t true about me, but it is.
The question we should ask ourselves after learning and accepting our ugly reflections is, why? What’s the root of our mean streak?
Don’t bypass “mean talk.” Sometimes it feels mean because it’s truthful.
October is the mecca for a plethora of awarenesses and causes, but it’s most commonly known for breast cancer awareness. We all know someone directly or indirectly affected by breast cancer. There are many forms of breast cancer and I think the different types get lost in the awareness of the month. This is unfortunate, we need clarity and understanding of all forms of breast cancer, as it further educates us and helps prevention.
I always knew breast cancer sucked but I never took the time to truly educate myself. Every year, I pass doctor’s offices encouraging women to get mammograms and breast exams but still, I figured, I was too young to entertain the thought of breast cancer. Until recently, I thought a mammogram and breast exam were the same thing.
It was this year, that I decided to change my mind. While scrolling down my Instagram timeline, I saw a picture of my friend. She had one breast. Positive that my eyes were deceiving me, I examined the picture further. My eyes weren’t deceiving me. My friend, Jaymonroe has angiosarcoma breast cancer. The idea of someone so young, so vibrant and pretty healthy; having cancer scared the hell out of me.￼
To make things worst, I encountered another beautiful woman, Ella, who is also fighting breast cancer( Metastatic breast cancer ) She shares a similar story. When I learned that these women suffering this horrible disease we’re all around healthy until now, it scared me. Tv and media always make it seem like the people mostly getting breast cancer are those who live unhealthy lifestyles and this just isn’t true.
I continued life after this news paranoid. “How did this happen,” I thought. I had so many questions.
I began to obsess over my own breast–a lot. So, I schedule an appointment with my doctor and she told me…
I have Fibrocystic breast disease. “What is that,” I asked? It’s a condition that causes lumpy texture in the breast. It’s non-cancerous and caused by hormone changes–like when you’re on your period. Breast fibroids can cause tenderness in the breast which is what alarmed me. It’s extremely common,especially in black women.
Turns out, my caffeine intake could affect and even agitate the fibroids so I’ve decided to quit coffee cold-turkey. I also learned in detail how to conduct breast exams on myself. I was advised to monitor the lumpiness in my breast to make sure the lumps didn’t harden, cause discoloration, change appearance or hurt.
Leaving my doctor’s office with this new news left me feeling blessed. I can’t fathom what’s it’s like receiving the heartbreaking news that, “you have breast cancer.” All I could do is praise Jesus that I and my breast are totally fine.
A lot of women don’t take their breast and their wellbeing seriously. I get it. Breast are literal lumps of fat hanging from our bodies. Other than finding the right bras to lift them, we usually don’t think about them too much. I want to change that mindset. I want to dead the idea that breast cancer considers age, race, gender, or lifestyle. Breast cancer doesn’t discriminate and I want you, us to be properly educated.
“I want people to know the truth. Breast cancer is real,” Jaymonroe wrote on my insta stories.
My friend Jay, shared a couple pictures, journaling her days leading up to her diagnosis. Pictures of what looked like a bug bite filled my eyes from my phone screen. She didn’t think that bump was cancer and as the other person looking at what she saw, I could see why. It literally looked like a bruised mosquito bite on her breast.
Jay described what she thought to be a bruise on her breast as painful; so painful, she wanted her entire breast removed. Little did she know, that was already her fate.
Sharing her story and so candidly on her social media pages is beyond inspiring. Even with all she’s battling, she still chooses to help, uplift and educate others.
Ms. Ella is quite vocal about her fight on social media too. Both women speak with such love and concern for their community–they are our community’s WonderWomen.
“You never get use to the fight,” Ella said. “People think it’s a daily struggle to find motivation but, I struggle hourly.”
Ella described daily task like bathing or leaving the house as torturous. She explained that medicines and chemo are harder on the body than movies and television display.
“The water burns my skin,” Ella said. “Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed,” she added.
These are two different women with two different stories, conveying the same passionate message; “Get your breast examined!”
I don’t have a scripture or any magical quote that explains why cancer exist or why it attacks the ones we love; but I have a voice– a voice I’d like to use to say, monitor your breast! Many women who fail to conduct monthly breast exams suffer with cancer unknowingly, making survival questionable.
Get your breast checked! Conduct your own breast exams. ￼
Cancer is only as scary as we allow it to be. I have faith that we will find a cure, maybe even a vaccine, but for now, book an appointment with your doctor and save the ta tas!
To Ms. Ella and Jay, we lift you guys up in prayer and support! You 👏🏿will 👏🏿beat 👏🏿cancer👏🏿 and when you do, we’ll be there cheering you on!
The black community is in an uproar and rightfully so. Another unarmed black king by the name of, Botham Jean was shot and killed by a police officer and after his murder’s sentencing, the chick not only got a slap on the wrist sentence but she too, received a hug from the judge!
Botham was lounging on his couch in his apartment, enjoying a bowl of ice cream when Amber Guyger walked in and shot him. Amber’s, (the police officer) argument is that after a long day at work, she walked into the apartment, mistakenly thinking it was her own and saw a strange man in her home. In rebuttal to what she thought to be a burglary, she withdrew her gun and shot Botham dead. She said that she was too delirious to know she wasn’t in her own apartment and out of “fear for her life,” she had no other choice than to shoot the accused perpetrator dead.
Amber’s argument is crap, so much so, that I propose that we investigate every arrest—anything she did on the clock, because if she was too delirious to know that she walked into the wrong apartment; an apartment that smelled differently than hers, an apartment that had different furniture than hers and apartment with a half-dressed black man enjoying tv on his couch; how do we know she was coherent when she was on the job leading up to the event?
After the shooting, the police searched Botham’s home. They searched his home and not hers. This is a prime example of racial bias, making the black victim guilty for just being black—finding fault or ammo to support the racial intent. This is an example of the idealistic mindset that “all black people are bad in some way despite who they are, what they do or where they are!” This brother was in his own home minding his business and even still, he was treated as a threat, even after he was dead.
Amber received a 10-year sentence and was even able to argue the “stand your ground,” law because, “she thought she was standing her ground in her own home.” Do yall remember when Marissa Alexander tried to use this same argument against her abusive husband? The black on her skin caused the jury to convict her with a whopping 20-year sentence. The hypocrisy! So what’s being subliminally taught is that, if you’re black your life doesn’t matter and if you’re white not only is life deemed greater, but any crime you commit is due to accident or unfortunate circumstances.
I’m not shooketh at Amber Guyger’s light sentence, she’s a white woman in American. She cried in court. We all know the power of white tears! What upset me to my core is the reaction from the judge.
During the trial, Botham’s brother, Brandt Jean, hugged Amber and wished her well in life. He did this because, “I know that’s exactly what Botham would want.” Never will I ever tell someone how to heal. Brandt felt that he needed to forgive Amber in order to honor his brother and to heal himself. I respect that. Although, I don’t think my reaction would’ve been the same, I understand him. Brandt Jean is entitled to tackle his healing however he chooses, this incident directly affected him but guess who had NO RIGHT to display any emotion in that courtroom? The judge! Judge Tammy was completely out of line for embracing that murderer, one, in front of the victim’s family and two just in general! What was she thinking? Many people in the black community including myself suspect that she wasn’t thinking at all!
To hug that women was a blatant slap in the face to the family and the black community. Her hug implied that she sympathized with the plaintive and maybe even had regret for sentencing her. Her hug translated to the black community told us that she one, doesn’t love herself, her people and although she reigns in the highest position in the court, she still seeks the approval and ok of her white masses. I am angry!
On a professional aspect, how inappropriate and unprofessional to even hug anyone? As a judge, you should leave all opinions and biases out the courtroom. Realistically we know this doesn’t always happen but damn sis!
So I was already pissed at the judge’s coonish behavior but what really placed the cherry on top was the picture surfacing of the black bailiff fixing Amber’s hair? What in the Samuel L. Jackson in Django is going on? I’ll tell you, black people so low in pride, so eager to please massa, that they’d disrespect the people that look like them—even when that means the person they’re really disrespecting is the person in the mirror!
This has to stop! How do we expect white people to honor and respect black lives when we, black people don’t respect ourselves?
“The enemies are not so much from without as from within the race.”
Black people, we have to do better–we have to love ourselves.