On September 10, 2001 I got an instant message from a guy I was seeing. His name was David. Now to say I was “seeing” him might be a bit of a stretch — I guess he was what you would call today a “friend with benefits”. Our benefitted friendship had been going on for some time at this point, and I was starting to grow a bit tired of it. It was a very sporadic relationship; there were periods where we would talk every day and see each other weekly, followed by absences that sometimes went on for months when I would not hear from him. I can’t say that during our “down time” I spent a lot of time languishing and being sad when he wasn’t around. I kept myself…ummm…busy. But when he would turn up, I never turned him away. I knew he was divorced and that his divorce occurred in part because his wife cheated on him with a friend of his. So he was understandably distant and emotionally unavailable in a lot of respects. Of course I understand all this now, ten years later. At that time he was just the guy I really liked who continued to be elusive and non-commital…a guy I knew I would have eventually because I’d never NOT gotten a man I wanted. But I would admit I was starting to grow tired of the game, and a part of me just wanted to say to him “look, I really like you and this little back and forth homey/lover/friend thing is not what I want”.

David wanted to see me that night. He was off from work he said, and wanted to know if we could get together. My kids were with my mom and I had planned to go out, but hadn’t quite decided where. David lived in Riverdale at that time (not far from New Carrollton in PG County), and my car was in the shop. I told him I wasn’t going to be able to make it unless he came to Baltimore to pick me up, and he’d have to bring me back in the morning. In a way I thought this would discourage him f rom wanting to see me because it was a 30-40 minute drive. I wanted to see him but at the same time I wasn’t sure how long I could continue down this road liking this man who didn’t seem to really want to be with me. Since I couldn’t seem to manage a “no” on my own accord, I thought creating a transportation issue would work.

We discussed the transportation issue a bit; he said he’d just gotten off work and ddn’t really feel like making the drive up — exactly what I was counting on. What I was NOT counting on was that he would offer an alternative. He suggested that I take the train down to New Carrollton and that he’d pick me up from the train station, and that he could take me back home in the morning. He offered to reimburse me for the train ticket when I got there. By this time I was feeling weak and a bit horny from listening to his voice and thinking of times past we’d spent SOOOO pleasantly together, so I agreed. Twenty minutes later I was at Penn Station, and forty minutes after that I was getting off the train in New Carrollton.

When he picked me up he asked me if I wanted to go anywhere, get something to eat, get drinks, go to a movie, etc. I didn’t want to do anything but go to his house. The train ride down had worked me up quite a bit sexually (something about modes of transportation have always turned me on…trains, planes, buses, etc.), and I really didn’t need all the preamble.  So we went straight back to his place.

The night was very different for some reason. He lit candles in his bedroom; something he had never done before. They smelled wonderful, but at the same time made me leery of his intentions. And even once we got started the sex was different. It was…slower. A lot slower. More deliberate and intentional. Everything about it was drawn out…the foreplay, the act itself, the afterplay. And I could see shadows of us flickering in the candlelight against the wall. It was all kind of surreal, and very unlike him. By the time he spooned me (another unheard of event for us) and kissed myh shoulder and we began to drift off to sleep, I was very satisfied, and rather confused.

He woke me up in the pre-dawn hours of the morning. The candles were still flickering, albeit much more dimly. My brain still clogged with sleep, I was not fully awake before I felt him touch me again, and he repeated the actions of the night before. And Idrifted off to sleep again with him at my side. I was very much aware of his flesh against mine, his muscles, his limbs.

I woke up at 8:25, and quickly decided to call out sick. He was already up and in the living room. I searched for my phone, found it in my purse, and, in my best fake coughing raspy voice called my boss to let her know I wasn’t coming in. Satisfied, I laid back down in bed to enjoy a bit of afterglow, and turned on the television. I was thinking that I really needed to talk to David about us, about where we stood. I knew how much men hated that “where is this thing going” speech, but at this point it was necessary. I realized this was the first time I’d ever spent the entire night at David’s house; the first time I hadn’t adhered to the “FWB” rules and left in the middle of the night, driving myself home in the wee hours, crawling into my own bed at home still some hours before the sun came up. In fact, I had never seen his home during daylight hours. As these thoughts crossed my mind, he came back into the room, towel wrapped around his midsection, but still naked underneath. He blew out the candles and sat down on the bed and smiled at me. I mentioned to him that today was my son’s 7th birthday, and that I planned to pick him up a cake and some ice cream on my way home. My son never liked big birthday parties, he always just wanted cake and ice cream with the family. David smiled and offered to take me by a bakery on my way home. He was asking me about breakfast (another first!) and I glanced at the television just in time to see a tall building engulfed in flames and smoke.

I remember wondering what third world country had erupted into war. The television was on mute, and I stared at the image…a skyscraper aflame next to an idential skyscraper. Something about the picture pulled at my memory. The television was on mute, and David picked up the remote to turn on the sound. And then we heard the newscaster say that an airplane had been flown into one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City. There were suspicions that it was a terrorist attack, but no one was sure. Information was sketchy, and the news showed people jumping and falling out of the burning building. And as if that weren’t bad enough, I watched the second airplane crash into the other tower before my very eyes.

Then there was an announcement that something had happened at The Pentagon. David had left the room at that announcement, and returned, fully dressed. Then I remembered. David was a D.C. police officer. He had to go. Our morning was over.

I don’t remember getting dressed. I don’t remember the ride back to the train station. I remember him saying he wouldn’t be able to take me home and he was sorry. I remember being afraid, confused. I remember being scared for him, scared for myself, and all the family and loved ones I had in the NYC area and the DC area.  I remember wondering what would happen to him, what things he would be faced with today. I wondered if I would ever see him again.

I do remember him saying he’d contact me as soon as he could, and to call him and let him know I’d gotten home safely, and to leave a message if I didn’t get him. He pressed a $20 bill in my hand, presumably for the train ticket I’d bought. I nodded, smiled at him and said “be safe”. He said “of course.” Igot out of his truck and he drove away.

I walked into the New Carrollton train station, clutching my train ticket home.  The station was a madhouse. No one knew what was going on. By this time everyone knew about the Pentagon attack. To make matters worse, all train service out of DC was suspended indefinitely. I tried to call home, my friends, my job, anyone, but phone lines were jammed. I sat in the train station, alone, trying not to cry, looking at the people who were crying, not knowing what was going on, panicked and scared. I couldn’t reach anyone to pick me up. All I could do was wait. And wait.

By early afternoon they ran a train out of DC to Baltimore. I got on it. It was packed. I discovered on the train ride home thatBaltimore had pretty much shut down after the attack, especially downtown Baltimore. I had planned to go downtown to Lexington Market to get my son’s cake, which I had remembered somehow, but was told it was closed. So I got off the train at West Baltimore and walked to my friend Michael’s house. He was home. I was able to watch the news there, and he told me everything that had happened all day — that it was a terrorist attack, that there had been a plane headed for the Capital building to crash into it, but once the passengers got wind of the attacks through phone calls from friends they fought off the terrorists on their plane, causing it to crash into a field in Pennsylvania. The Pentagon had been damaged. Thousands were missing in New York.  The country was literally under attack.

I cried at Michael’s house, then called my house. I managed to get through this time. My mom had arranged to have my kids picked up from school, and they were with her. My son was upset because it was his birthday and was particularly distraught when I couldn’t be reached. I got a us home that didn’t drive through downtown, and when I arrived home, my son cried because I had no cake for him. I spent the rest of the day consoling him and watching CNN.

Eventually I did write a short story called “The September 11th Story” about my experience. It made it into my very first book, “Lipstick and Other Stories”.  In the days that followed, when I didn’t hear from David I did worry a bit. Though there were extended periods of time when I didn’t hear from him, this time I wondered if he was okay. How would I find out if he wasn’t.

A couple of weeks later he turned up. He was fine.

Now I put “explore polygamy”  in quotes because honestly, I have talked to a fair number of Black men, and what I have found is men who want to have sex with a large variety of women — as many women as possible. The large majority of them aren’t actually interested in creating a family unit in which they would be required to play a crucial supportive role as husband to several women. They do not want to provide familiar, financial, emotional or spiritual shelter and comfort to more than one woman because they happen to have found more than one woman they want to do that for.  Most of them can’t successfully do any of those things for one woman to be perfectly honest. And let’s be even more honest – the large majority of these men want multiple sex partners with no strings attached, and with no complaints from the multiple women they are having sex with. These men figure if they “practicing polygamy”, and let the women know this, if she agrees to go along with it, its okay. It concerns me that the increasing talk about polygamy as a viable option for women serves to offer an excuse for men who are simply seeking ways to be promiscuous without being called on it by women.

As a woman in general, and as a Black woman in particular, I get SO TIRED of everyone telling me I am not enough. Me, just me…only me, I am not enough. I’m too light, or too dark. Too loud, or too quiet. Too demanding ,or too acquiescing. Too fat, or too skinny. Too arrogant, or too unassuming. Too smart or not smart enough.  My hair is too short, too nappy, too fake, too long, too short. Ass too big. Ass not big enough. Tits too small, too big, too saggy, too round. There is always something I am lacking, or have too much of, that gives the world an excuse to ignore me, devalue me, humiliate me, something, always something, that lets me know that me, as God divinely made me, with all my faults and shortcomings and beauty and strength is not enough. When it comes to a man to be satisfied, fulfilled, to get what is required or necessary, he finds what I provide is insufficient. I am not enough, the world says, as they pass me over for others. I am not a full enough measure, no matter what glory is in me. Sometimes it seems that nothing exists to reflect me in such a complete way that I am able to fill it to overflowing with myself, and my abundance is all that is necessary, because it is enough. And then I come to you Black man, with all the rejection of the world bowing my head and slumping my shoulders, and I turn to you, hoping to see maybe a glimmer of the beauty I sense is still in me deep down somewhere reflected in your eyes. Hoping maybe you can be satisfied with me, just me, only me. But even you say I’m not enough. You need another, and another, and another.

This is why I need monogamy. Because I want there to be someplace in my life where me, just me, imperfect me, is enough. Period.  I need a place in my life that is MINE, only mine, just for me, that is not for the village, for the masses, for the nation. Just for me, a place custom fitted to hold my burdens and make them light. A place where I can be weak and worn in private.  Matthew Chapter 6, verses 5 and 6 say “But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret.”  This is what I want with my man. My secret closet, where I shut my door, and pray, confess, recharge, relax. A place I don’t have to share with the next woman. 

I think maybe men don’t understand how hard it is to be a woman, a woman of color, in the world. Maybe they get so caught up in their own struggles, and I do recognize they struggle in a way that I will never understand as a woman. I fully acknowledge that. But I think they never stop to consider a woman’s unique burdens. I don’t think men get that a woman is called on to serve the world and everything in it, and all she wants in return is a single heart in which her spirit can rest privately, because no one else is there but her, and men, using whatever excuses are popular this week, will deny her that.

The new polygamy excuse is particularly troubling to me because it tends to evoke “the motherland” as its justification, talking about how many African tribes have historically practiced various versions of polygamy. I always have to point out that in times past, a man was a necessity for a woman in a way that doesn’t exist now, because in those times past life was very physically demanding for both men and women. Many of the activities of daily living consisted of tasks requiring great physical strength, and a strong, able-bodied man was best suited for these tasks, so a woman needed a husband, and to ensure all the woman of a village were cared for, one man would have to care for several women. That isn’t the case anymore. Then I have to point out that there are African tribes who practice polyandry, which is a woman having more than one husband, and I suggest that what’s good for the goose is good for the gander. When my desire for multiple partners comes into question, and I offer up the same “well if it’s good enough for the motherland it’s good enough or me” excuse, that isn’t acceptable.

It is my sincere hope I will find someone who feels what I am is enough…he doesn’t require “standbys”, “stand-ins”, “understudies”, “supporting casts”, “backups”, “Plan Bs”, or whatever he wants to call them.  My life as a woman in modern days and times is a very burdened one. It is challenging. It is difficult. It seeks to wear me down, wear me out, tear me apart each and every day.  I honestly don’t have the time or the inclination to spread my precious intimacy among a group of people.  I need my intimate circle to be a table for two and only two. And if that is too much to ask well…you probably need to find someplace else to sit.

I’ve told you how it’s been for me.
I love too hard and strong.
And sometimes I needed to let go,
and I stayed around too long.
I know some men chase girls for sport,
And they’ll chase harder when the girls withdraw,
but they’ll run when the girls give in to them.
Please don’t be my last straw.

I’m asking you not to tell me lies.
Don’t chase space in my head
when all you really want from me
is a good time in my bed.
And when I ask how you really feel,
don’t stutter, hem and haw.
Don’t treat me like some stupid chick.
Please don’t be my last straw.

I’m telling you right here and now,
I’m at the end of my rope.
I’m tired of being all alone.
It’s so hard for me to cope.
If I find this was just a game to you,
I’ll break every single law
to make sure you feel the pain I feel.
So don’t be my last straw.

I will call all my cousins,
play cousins, brothers and uncles too.
Trust and believe they’ll teach the lesson
that I couldn’t teach to you.
You know that gun I got? When I’m real pissed
I’m real quick on the draw.
Too many men have done me wrong!
So baby,
please don’t be my last straw!

And fellas, always keep in mind
how much a woman can hide.
You never really truly know
what storms might rage inside.
So call her a crazy bitch
when she tags your car with a chainsaw,
but maybe she was just fed up;
maybe you were her last straw.

–Petula Caesar

But of course if you scratch the surface of this kind of knee jerk name calling, you’ll come up with a wealth of insecurity. It is truly unfortunate, because the word “ho” is so inflammatory, it makes it difficult to get past it to see what the real issue is. The word is such a red flag, no one is able to take their eyes off it long enough to see anything else. But I am a very calm, rational type of chick, and very little upsets me. As such, I have this to offer to the discussion:

More than anything, women want there to be a map to a successful relationship. They want to know that if they “do” the “right things”, they will be rewarded with a “good man”. But it doesn’t stop there. Additionally, they want the satisfaction of knowing that women who do “wrong things” – ho’s — will be punished, left sad, alone and lonely for their behavior by karma, dharma, or whatever method the universe may employ. So it is a two pronged process – they want to be rewarded for being “good women” and they want to see “bad women” punished.

For example, in the name of being a “good woman”, women will often go to great lengths to make sure they don’t sleep with a guy they are dating for some arbitrary predetermined period of time in the hopes that this will ensure his respect. After all, this is what “good women” do, and women who get busy early on in their dealings with a man or (clutch the pearls) on a first date are “bad women” and will not get a “good man”. These “good women” may go to great lengths to not dress provocatively in an attempt to ensure they aren’t pursued by men just based on physical attractiveness alone, because only “bad women” let some man talk to them just because he thought she had a phat ass. “Good women” may often make a very big deal about the fact that they don’t “mess with” men that are spoken for in some form or fashion, while “bad women” don’t care if a man has a girl or a wife or whatever – they just go for theirs and consequences be damned. “Good women” do the things they do because they know at the end of this “good” rainbow is a pot of man-gold.

What women don’t get it that it is hardly ever that simple.

The truth of the matter is that there really is no guarantee that any particular kind of behavior will give you a guaranteed result every single time, and this is especially true of people, of human nature, of relationships. Waiting 3 months or 6 months or 6 years even to become intimate with a man doesn’t guarantee that he’s a decent man. Treating a man well doesn’t guarantee he’ll treat you well in return. Hell, even dating a married man isn’t a guaranteed ticket to a lifetime of misery and loneliness anymore; the phenomenon of men marrying their former mistresses seems to be becoming quite common these days.

But this flies in the face of everything “good women” do. They carry their virtue around like a badge of honor, like a membership card into the “good man looking for a good woman” society. So when they see a woman, who to their mind is “bad”, or is in a situation that to them is “bad”, but she seems to be content in it, they get mad and then out comes the “ho” card. “Good women” don’t want to hear that there are women in relationships with men that are pretty good – and these are men they slept with on the first date. Some of these women even marry these men. “Good women” don’t want to hear that sometimes the man does leave his wife and marry the other women. And please misunderstand – I’m not encouraging or suggesting any women behave any particular way. What I’m saying is that if you’re behaving in a certain way because you think it’s the only way to get what you want, and you haven’t gotten it by now…you may want to consider that it doesn’t work.

Honestly, I don’t know any single successful relationship that didn’t start out with bumps and rocky roads and behaviors that most “good women” would turn their noses up at. Most of the happily married people I know (not a whole lot of folks, but a few) had relationships full of the types of things “good women” don’t do – infidelity, lying, deceit, etc. I know one girl who started dating a guy who was still sharing an apartment with his baby’s momma – he told the new girl that he couldn’t afford to break the lease because he wanted to buy a house and refused to have that on his credit report. He promised the new girl he wasn’t sleeping with baby’s momma, and would move out immediately after the lease ended.  Are you “good women” shaking your heads? Guess what? He moved out when his lease ended, got his own place, continued to date the new girl, and now they have been married almost 10 years and have a daughter. His son with the baby’s momma is a part of their family. And they’re reasonably happy as couples go.

So, at the end of the day, none of us can throw stones. You never know what life has in store for you. But what I will say is that there is no thick rule book for relationships with all kinds of statutes and laws and ordinances. It is very general and simple – honesty, openness, kindness, caring and…the most important thing…discernment. Being able to discern between people who mean you well and can act accordingly and those who can’t is crucial in the dating world.  It is more important that how you act, because if you can discern a person’s character accurately, you know how you should treat them. If you do the right thing with the wrong person, you’ll get pretty much the same result as you get when you do the wrong thing. At the end of the day, its not so much what you do, but who you do it with.

At the end of the day, people tend to do what they want to do. Your “good behavior” in and of itself doesn’t impact who a person is unless they want it to – and usually they don’t. So please, to paraphrase a famous quote: “when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

I try to have at least some new material each year, so I don’t bring the same show back to places where I am appearing for a second or third time. That means I’m writing and memorizing at least 2-3 new pieces in preparation for my shows throughout January up until the events. Now that I’ve started doing covers (which means I perform work by artists), that does help me create new shows because now I put at least one cover in every show I do. But that means my band is constantly learning new music. A new show also means new outfits to wear onstage. At some shows I do acapella sets, and at some shows I perform with a full band, so I have to rehearse different versions of my show to accommodate different venues. If I’m traveling, I have to pack, get to the airport/bus station/train station, get to my destination, check into my hotel, try to get to the venue a little before my show so I can get a feel for it and watch the crowd come in (that’s how I make a final determination on what I do in a set – by watching the crowd). By the time February 15th rolls around, I’m exhausted.

In many respects I am thankful for my new Valentine’s Day rituals. Granted they are not at all what I thought they would be at this stage of my life – I find myself in the strange position of putting on some of my sexiest and most revealing lingerie and attire for a room full of applauding strangers instead of that one special someone. But it does help take the focus off myself; I am focused on other people, which is a good thing. Instead of wearing myself out worrying about love, I worry about performing. I don’t have time to wallow in self pity or self doubt, to wonder why I’m alone or visit my mental cemetery of dead relationships. I don’t make random phone calls to any of my exes, trying to get closure where there is none (something I’ve done in the past). I don’t have time to wonder about unrequited loves from my past, present or future. I have to work, and that’s what I do. Work. I throw all my energy into my work.

But I do wonder if I would be depressed if I weren’t so busy. If I really had to feel the sharp little needles of loneliness so many unattached people feel this time of year, how would I handle it? Though I’ve never been one to be big on holidays and expressions of affection dictated by the calendar, it is still difficult to totally ignore a world draped in red and pick, smelling of roses and chocolates with words of love dripping from its lips. No matter how much reason and logic you apply to the whole Valentine’s Day thing, you still can’t help but feel an occasional pinch of sadness – and I think that’s especially true of women, who often put so much more obvious emphasis on relationships and being with someone. Or I would feel bad that is, if I weren’t so busy. Performing is the anesthetic I pour on my heart during this Valentine’s Day season, but what would I be like without it?

Of course I have to appreciate Valentine’s Day, because it is the month when I earn the most money as a performer. I sell more CDs and downloads between January 25th and February 15th than almost any other time of the year. I can count on a bunch of performances that pay pretty well, and are a lot of fun to do. The shows I do during this period always lead to other bookings and expose me to people that help me in other ways. And I sell a lot of merchandise during my Valentine’s Day shows. Love and sex is thriving business for me the first 2 weeks of February, and I take full advantage of it. I start looking for Valentine’s Day bookings in mid-December, and by late January I’m all set. I plan out my wardrobe, load up on product to sell, make arrangements for someone to keep an eye on my kids – between rehearsals and shows I’m not home a lot this time of year. During these two weeks alone, if I’m careful, even after expenses, I earn a very decent amount of money. But if I slowed down – would the pain catch me? Would I be lonely? Would I notice that there is no “special someone” who comes to my shows to support me, to admire me, to care about me and what I do? If I stood still, didn’t write the poem, put on the makeup, lace up the corset, pull on the stockings, would I look up and notice there isn’t anyone wishing I didn’t have to work on Valentine’s Day so I could spend it with him? Over the past five years no man has said to me “can’t you take off this year” or “do you have to work so hard”? Would I really notice the couples in the audiences I entertain, would I see them and wonder why I am not part of a couple someplace? Would I envy the couples that come up to me after shows who buy a CD, get it autographed by me and quickly take a picture before running home (or wherever) to make love, while I go back to an empty hotel room, or go home alone to my kids and kiss them goodnight?

For the moment, I don’t have the answers to those questions. Between today and February 15th, I have six definite performances and two possible ones. I start rehearsals next week. I have two new pieces I need to get to two different groups of musicians I’m working with. I have a new piece I’m committing to memory, and while I’m not doing any major traveling this year, I will be in D.C. with the band for a few shows. Again I’m too busy to really notice the celebration I so actively participate in and profit from. And it’s probably better that way.

Don’t get me wrong — it wasn’t always like this. I have had extremely romantic Valentine’s Days in my past. I remember gifts. I remember perfume. I remember flowers, candy, jewelry, shopping sprees, and romantic dinners in beautiful restaurants. I remember getaways to quiet sexy places, satin sheets, and massage oil. I remember bubblebaths for two, bottles of champagne. I remember lingerie worn for only one set of eyes. I remember love letters and love poems written for me, instead of by me for others. I remember hands, a man’s hands, moving across every part of me with tender and sensual dedication. I remember scented candles, rose petals on my skin and passion in my heart. If I strain really hard I think I can even remember love, which made the lust much more potently powerful. Men in my past have showered me with love in its most luxurious, decadent, generous fashion in my past.

But these are my memories, not my realities. And the ocean between the two is dark with pain, regret, and probably even fear that the tide has turned away from my shores for good, and these things will never return to me.

So perhaps my present is a blessing. From where I stand onstage, I can at least acknowledge that these things do still exist, though they aren’t in my world. I can look out onto the sea of love, though I may never dive in again and ride those waves to wherever my lover and I end up. It perhaps is enough that for now love welcomes me on its sandy beach, offers me a special place to sit, tickling and teasing my feet with splashes now and then. It may be just as well, because I probably have forgotten how to swim in that powerful current anyway.

Having said all this, I must go now. I have a poem to memorize!

Peace!

This blog is going to be a tad bit random, but stay with me and you’ll get it.

Most of you I’m sure (unless you’ve been under a rock the past week and a half) have heard about Ted Williams, the homeless guy with the golden voice who was recently literally lifted out of the streets of Columbus, Ohio to fame and fortune in a matter of day. After having been homeless for over a decade, a local news reporter stumbled upon Williams, video recorded him speaking with his golden voice, and within days Williams was on national television, fielding all kinds of offers paying tens of thousands of dollars to do announcing and voiceover work, and was a media darling. But the honeymoon didn’t last long, because within days Williams’ ex-wife and nine children were discovered – all had been abandoned by Williams years before due to his drug and alcohol abuse, his involvement with other women, and his general downward spiral into self destruction, jail, and homelessness.

Next thing you knew they were all on Dr. Phil trying to get “help”. First Williams himself, who had an episode of the show to himself, and the next day he sat down with 7 of his kids and his ex wife with Dr. Phil in an attempt to begin to acknowledge and “make right”, as Dr. Phil put it several times, all of the wrongs.

I peeked at the Dr. Phil show a bit (I couldn’t bear to watch the whole thing for some reason.) But I happened to watch during a segment when Williams was speaking to his oldest daughter, a 29 year old woman named Janay. She was sitting before her father, crying, sobbing, voice shaking, holding his hands, talking about how much she had missed having a dad over the years to help her with her homework, to take her to the park, etc. He looked at her, hurt and pain etched over his weathered face, and he said to her in a broken and more emotional version of his golden voice, “…I’m going to by you a Louis Vuitton bag.”

That’s when I paused. I turned off the television and began to think about my daughter and her dad.

My daughter’s dad does have some similarities with Mr. Williams, minus the golden voice. Though my daughter’s dad and I were never married, he abandoned his daughter many years ago, and was not around for her. Like Williams, he was often homeless (he probably is now if he isn’t in jail), and spent time in jail at various intervals from a few months to a couple of years here and there for non-violent crimes similar to those Williams committed (theft, robbery, etc.), oftentimes done to support his drug and alcohol addictions. He has been in his daughter’s life only sporadically, on an occasion here and there – you could count the times on your hands and have fingers left.

I always tried to encourage my daughter’s father to spend time with her over the years. He would occasionally call when she was much younger to inquire about her, and I would ask him, even at times beg him to come see her. I would offer to come pick him up, wherever he was, and bring him to my home to see her. I offered to take them out to the mall, to the movies, anywhere they wanted to go. But he would always say he couldn’t come see her because he didn’t have any money. I told him it didn’t matter, that she didn’t need money as much as she needed to see him and spend time with him and to know that he loved her and to have those memories of time spent with dad. But he always said he would come see her and when he did he would “…take her shopping…I mean anything she wants…everything she wants…clothes, shoes, take her out to dinner. I promise. Soon as I get myself together.”

I never could convince him that his presence was enough.

I did everything I could to convince him that she needed him, not things. Of all the wonderful memories I have of my dad, none of them are centered around major purchases of any kind. I tried to express this to her dad. I never demanded money from him. Never took him “downtown”.  I knew he didn’t have it, so what was the point? He was fighting his own demons, and I felt badly for him. But I still begged him to come see her. I offered to get his hair cut, to get him cleaned up before he saw her so she wouldn’t see him looking ragged. I even offered to give him money to “pay” for their outings, never telling her that the money came from me. But it didn’t matter. Whenever we talked about him spending time with her, he always talked about that great getting’ up morning when he would take her on that shopping spree and buy her anything she wanted.

I never could convince him that he was enough.

I kind of understood why he felt the way he did. His mom had divorced his dad for not being the best of providers (among other things), and when she remarried it was a much older man who was extremely financially secure and helped her achieve financial security also. And so often you hear women talk about how important money is when it comes to men, so important that it seems that nothing else matters. And while I’m not foolish enough to think money is not important, and I understand that providing for your child is vital, and that any decent man will move heaven, earth and everything in between to provide for their child, I still have to wonder if men feel that is the ONLY value they have – their financial contributions.

I know there were many reason why my daughter’s dad didn’t want to see her, didn’t feel he could or should see her. But no matter what the reasons were, string them together for over 18 years and you have a lifetime of neglect in the eyes of a young woman who now must shoulder the burden of the “daddy complex”.  There were so many things he could have done for her that had nothing to do with money. That what I wanted for her. He had nothing in his wallets, so I wanted him to give her everything he had in his heart. But for him it was all about the wallet, it was the only contribution worth making, the only one that mattered. And with so many women so pressed to place price tags on everything from an hour of their time in a restaurant or at a concert to a night in bed with them (“girl, he could at least pay my cell phone bill if he’s gonna spend the night, right?” I had one grown ass woman say to me in complete seriousness), why should a man feel he has any worth beyond his wallet, and maybe his penis – and even that is dependent on his wallet.

So Ted Williams, in the face of his daughter’s wishing out loud for time spent with her dad offered up a Louis Vuitton bag. I understand why, I do. I’ve experienced it. But it still hurts me and reminds me of how important it is to value ourselves and others beyond dollars and cents.  To paraphrase a very famous quote…what good is it for any of us to know the price of everything, and the value of nothing?

Until next time,

Tula

I can’t really say exactly why I am feeling compelled to write this right now. But whenever I think about writing something, I write it. It doesn’t matter what the subject, or what I think about it, or whether anyone else will get it. So why should writing about love be any different.

I am sitting on my couch late tonight, trying to remember the last time a man told me he loved me. And believe me, it’s requiring me to go way back as the saying goes…back into time. In fact I have to travel back to 2004 to recall the last time a man said those three words to me. It was a man I thought I would marry at the time. I wanted to marry him, I really did. There is no relief in the world like the relief a single woman feels when she’s finally met “the one” and thinks she is at long last going to be taken “off the market”. I wouldn’t say that being single is a horrible thing, but it grows tedious over time. And one thing that life has taught me is that people aren’t meant to be alone. They really aren’t. More often than not even when they say they are going to be along, they don’t actually do it. They usually find someone (or several someones) to keep them company at least sometimes. But as fate would have it, I was not meant to marry this man. I can’t say that I’m sorry that we didn’t marry; ultimately I think it was best that we part company. He wasn’t ready to be a husband, and definitely not my husband. What I didn’t realize was the last time he told me he loved me was going to be the last time, for a long time, that any man would say that to me.

Now just because I haven’t heard the words doesn’t meant I haven’t felt at times that there were men in my life who loved me. Because there have been brief moments when I thought someone felt that way about me. I was wrong in those cases. So that leaves me here tonight, six years without hearing those three words from a man. And I must admit right now, it hurts. I’m not really sure why it’s bothering me right now. Maybe I’m feeling particularly lonely on this night, or some wave of nostalgia has taken over me. I guess watching “Soulfrodisiac” on VH1Soul isn’t helping, with all this slow, sexy, romantic love songs playing. But right now I am closing my eyes tight, and remembering how it felt to hear those words. I can hear them in my ear, soft and low as I drift off to sleep. I can hear them over the phone line as we reluctantly end our hours-long conversation. I watch his lips mouthing the words to me from across a crowded room. I look down at my cell phone and receive his text message that only says “I luv u.” I remember it with great fondness, especially because I knew he meant it. He really did love me, and every time he said it it was the absolute truth.

But that was six years ago. Six long years ago. And since then I have not heard a man say those words to me. I can’t help but wonder if it is because I have become unloveable somehow. I can’t help but wonder how six years of my life went by, and not one single man that I met was moved by me in any significant way. Maybe I am arrogant, maybe it’s kind of ridiculous for me to think that meeting me would be such an incredible experience that those words would fall from some man’s lips. But if I’m arrogant…well, truthfully, I’ll buy that. I’m pretty amazing if I do say so myself, and continue to be in spite of a lot of disasters that should have left me bitter, battered and afraid of living. But I’m not. At least I don’t think I am – but then I think of my six year drought without those words to water me, and I cast myself into a world of self doubt again.

Maybe love is rationed out in one’s lifetime. I must be honest; I’ve experienced a great deal of love in my life over the years, including the love I speak about now. And again, speaking honestly, I did not always treat it carefully. At times I threw it away with both hands, confident it would come back to me in greater abundance. And it usually did. I’ve excelled at walking away all my life, and I guess I always expected love to just follow me like a puppy in need of a good home. But what do I do now when I look back and love isn’t following me? So, as I enter my seventh loveless year, I try to figure out how I can continue across this dry season of my life. I do gain some comfort from the love I do have in my life from family, and the one or two close friends who I hope hold some kind of love for me within themselves. That love has warmth, but no heat, and heat is what I miss as winter makes its way to my doorstep again. The heat of that particular kind of love is what I want to warm me for a change, but since that isn’t entirely up to me, I may just have to continue to make do with what I have.

In the meantime, to each of you reading this, find someone to love. Not just warmly and fondly, but with great heat and passion. Set them aflame with your heart so that they know they are alive, so that they can add fire to you in return. It is so crucial in such a very very cold world.

–peace

A man’s role in a relationship is to overcompensate.

A woman’s role in a relationship is to over appreciate.

If a man can find a woman he loves who will over appreciate him, and a woman can find a man she loves who will overcompensate in dealing with her, they just might make it.

Men – Your job is to overcompensate where your woman is concerned. Every day, in every way. Overcompensate as much as you can, day in and day out, week after week after month after year. Never stop. Overcompensate for everything, even if you are doing everything adequately in the relationship. Why? Because by the time you meet your woman, she’s been through a lot of things – in life in general, and with men in particular. More than likely she’s had a pretty hard time – that’s just the nature of the world these days. She may be trying to raise kids on her own. She may have been a victim of some kind of abuse. She’s probably insecure about a lot of things. She’s probably had her heart ripped out of her chest while it was still beating by some callous uncaring man who didn’t know how good he had it with her. She’s got her hopes and dreams but oftentimes has no idea how she’ll accomplish any of them. She may have been abandoned by her family. The world is cold and cruel and unforgiving, especially for women. And women are always punished more harshly for the mistakes they make – so the woman that you love is probably hiding scars, bearing burdens, and struggling in ways she would never want you to see, because you wouldn’t want her if you did. Now granted, none of this is your fault, or your responsibility. But this isn’t about what is right or fair…this is about you being with your woman. So as her man, it is going to have to become one of your missions in life to be the balm that helps her heal herself. That will mean you will have to overcompensate.

Yes you will have to make her forget about all the jerks by doing right by her for yourself and for all of them. You will have to be generous for all the ones that were stingy, forgiving for all the ones who were harsh, and faithful for all the ones who cheated. Is it a huge burden? Hell yes. But nothing worth having is easy. So overcompensate. Do it. And what I can tell you is this – if you truly have a good woman, and she sees you doing this, eventually it won’t be as necessary for you to do it (though you will still have to at times). It won’t be about you doing it; it will be about your willingness to. The fact that you can do it, in time, will be enough. But as a man, that’s your job. You compensate, then you do extra.

Now for the ladies. Your man needs you to over appreciate him. I mean that seriously and literally. You need to appreciate him for the things he does that he should do and that, to some degree, you shouldn’t need to go out of your way to appreciate him for. Why? Because just like the world is hard and cold for you, its cold and hard for him too. He is catching hell out there – a kind of hell you know nothing about – a kind of hell you don’t even know exists because a man will never tell you about it. He is getting murdered out there, not just physically, but psychologically. He’s trying to work not just to survive, but to thrive. He wants to do well today and do even better tomorrow. But no one seems to care about his pain. According to way too many women, men have no pain, but that’s a lie. Often they’re getting past similar abuse issues from their pasts, broken hearts, misplaced trust, and the like. But men don’t expect you to directly right those wrongs like we do, which is why they don’t require overcompensation like women do. But what they do want is for you to receive with great sincerely, joy and gladness everything they bring to you. And I do mean everything. If a man loves you your smile is like water in the desert. Don’t let him die of thirst, or have him getting his water from some other well.  Men want to know you see all they’re doing, big, small and in between, and that you’re acknowledging them, their work, their sacrifices, their plans, the way in which they are trying to do their very best.

Will that mean you have to thank him for things that, to your mind, shouldn’t  require thanks? Occasionally. Will you have to praise every little task he performs from dawn to dusk, from peeing straight in the morning to taking the trash out at night? Well, no, I wouldn’t suggest that. What I will say is that from time to time, on a very regular basis, you need to let your man know that you see his efforts, and you acknowledge them in a special way. Sex is always good, but it can’t be the sex you usually give him. Make that the time you step your game up. If it’s not going to be sex (I suggested sex because its something most men would like and feel appreciated by!), make it something the man really wants. Let his boys come over to watch the game instead of banishing them to some sports bar. Cook up their favorite snacks and leave the house until the game is over. (Even if you like sports too, leave anyway. Sometimes guys just want to be guys without girls around and it has nothing to do with the extent of your sports knowledge.) But the point is over appreciation. That is what a woman does. You appreciate, then do extra.

Now not every woman knows how to over appreciate. And not every man can overcompensate. Some men just don’t want to put the work in to please their women like that. Some women think the fact that they’re present in a relationship with the guy should be appreciation enough. And that’s all well and fine, but trust me it will not be enough to keep them around successfully. It’s all about overcompensation and over appreciation – and that’s all I have to say about that!

PEACE!

I DIDN’T WANNA WRITE THIS PIECE

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
How many ways can you describe an abusive relationship?
How many times can you tell that story?
Who wants to hear or read about that – AGAIN?
From Chris Brown to Beau Willie Brown
it is a tale as old as time.
Whether it’s the old school “pimp slap”,
being fed daily meals of strategic isolation from family and friends
with side orders of emotional abandonment,
or just constantly being called out your name –
it’s all the same.
And I hate being repetitious.
So,
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
How many ways can you say
“I had low self esteem”
“I didn’t love myself”
“I didn’t think anyone else could ever love me”
How many times can you say
“I needed him”
“I thought it would get better”
“I let my standards fall to the ground”.
And even if you truly were in just that much pain,
feeling that much shame,
and didn’t want to give him the blame
you’ll still be some dumb bitch who didn’t have sense enough to kill that muthafucka
the first time he put hands on you!
And I didn’t kill him – I let him live.
So…
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
Hell, I probably started it.
Haven’t you heard?
Women have equal rights now.
And because we are the most expert button-pushers
on the planet we are just as entitled to be punched
as men are.
Shouldn’t get mad ‘cuz he finished what you started.
And yes,
It does make some kind of
toxic and violent sense in my head that if I hit him first I deserve what comes after….
But in the real world,
that almost-but-not-quite-correct
rationalization
didn’t hold much weight for him
at the police station
or for me
in the emergency room.
So,
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
(lowering my voice)
Just between you and me…
Have you seen those abused women
in the shelters and at those meetings?
Those are some hella ugly heffas!
Well, what I’m saying is they aren’t the most attractive bunch of ladies.
You can’t be too surprised that they couldn’t get any better than some insecure asshole.
And honestly…
ain’t I too attractive to be abused?
Don’t I seem too magnificent to be mistreated?
Too bad to be battered?
Too cute to be cussed out?
Too nice to be name-called?
Should I be put down
whenever I come around?
(I conveniently ignore the real question…am I too fly to die?)
I’m pretty sexy, don’t you think?
Fucking me with all the lights on is not a problem.
How would I look running to some…
I don’t know…place to get…HELP…
with my soft and well spoken tones,
my mani-pedi, my good benefited job
my MAC lip gloss and my strappy stiletto heels.
Look at me!
Do I look like I should eva have to lie
about a blackened eye?
So,
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…

Let’s just put the shitty stereotype out there,

okay?
I am a Black sista!
Strong sista!
Kinky hair and rounded ass!
Blood of the ancestors,
the an-ses-tas,
the an-SIS-TAS
flowing through my veins!
All the strong women that went before me
CorrettaScottKingHarrietTubmanSojournerTruthRosaParksBettyShabazz
Superwomen whose legacy I have soiled
with my inability to dial 911,
file a complaint,
press charges,
keep a court date,
change a lock,
seek/abide by a restraining order,
hire a crackhead to beat his ass
or just shoot that muthafucka!
Then you gotta look all these
modern day Superwoman bytches in the face.
You know the ones.
Miss “I wouldn’t neva let a man put his hands on me”
Miss “What is wrong with you? Wouldn’t be me dealing with that mess!”
Miss “If he touch me he betta kill me.”
Miss “Gurl, you ain’t got no rat poison in the house?”
Madea offering you hot grits, cast iron skillets and baseball bats.
Miss Sophia In Da Hood shoutin’
“I lubs DayQuan, gawd knows I do but I kill ‘em dead if he eva beat me!”
And you know what the worst part is?
Some of them look like they really could kick a man’s ass!
Amazon warriors in spirit, and sometimes in the flesh!
Some of them MIGHT be able to go toe to toe with a man, and if he did manage to win
he’d be breathing mighty hard when it was done.
But I’m not that one…
So,
I didn’t wanna write this piece.

I didn’t wanna write this piece.
I mean…
No one wants to hear the ugly truth about why
I don’t leave for good.
Most don’t say it, won’t say it.
But I know I never will get free
if I don’t try to speak on what’s binding me.
It is mentioned in vulgar euphemisms
if at all. But…..
It’s my addiction
to his DICK-tion!
Get it?
See…look at you
giving me the side eye!
That side eye is the reason why
I bear this burden alone.
I am the dirty butt
of a dirty joke
that ain’t the least bit funny
though everyone laughs like it is.
No one will tell me
how to cut ties with
the sex that has me so vexed.
Yes I need to be confessing it!
But no one wants to help me with addressing it!
How the way we make love is to make war first.
Now our battles are the foreplay
and the sex is the victory dance.
And we both win and lose
all at the same time.
The orgasms he can make
rain down in me
numb my brain
and ease my pain
adrenalin rushing
through my veins.
Serotonin soaking my cerebellum seeping into my soul
until it is bathed in sweet scented amnesia.
You don’t understand how him
inside me
makes it all make sense.
Body fucked hard, yes!
But mind fucked harder….oh baby yes!
It’s the spoonful of sugar that makes
his medicine go down. DOWN.
Like I have.
And since it can never truly be spoken
that its his sex game that got me so open
even long after everything else about us has died…
I accept my punishment for my love of the pleasures of his flesh
no matter what that punishment is.
Because feeling this way, makes me the weakest woman of all.
And I deserve what I get…right?
Right?
Well…say SOMETHING!

Yeah I know.
What can you say?
I know what you’re thinking of me.
But you know what?
Your silent judgment is the REAL reason why
I didn’t wanna write
this piece.

There is a lot of discord going on between men and women these days, and much of it is because of a lack of honesty — a lack of honesty with each other, and even worse, a lack of honesty with ourselves. I want to stimulate TRUTHFUL, open, mature discussion about these matters. I want to generate discussion that doesn’t seek to make one gender feel superior to the other. I want to generate discussion that isn’t focused on proving who is right and who is wrong, which is one of my pet peeves about these types of conversations — they are often divisive and more about finger pointing that helping us identify our issues and resolve them so we can treat each other better.

I want all of us to stop making ourselves feel better by looking down our noses at how other people behave in their personal relationships. But that’s not easy. We don’t like to face our own internal ugliness head on. It is much easier to observe others, criticize others, talk about what others have done that we never have done or would do, berate others for tolerating things we say we would never tolerate and so on. But more often than not, most of us have, in some form or fashion, have engaged in most of the behaviors we criticize others for. So it is my hope that those who read this won’t have the politically correct knee jerk response. That’s too easy. After you read what I have to say, Just think about it, ponder it, and don’t judge.

Having said all that…let’s begin!

The topic of today is “the jump off”. I want to get into so real talk about jump offs, the myths and realities of the jump off scenario, people’s attitudes about jump offs, and even jump off etiquette.

Now for some reason many people feel that being a jump off is demeaning, degrading, etc. Women and men speak in a condescending, even a disrespectful manner about this arrangement. But let us be honest and clear about exactly what a jump off is in an attempt to understand that negative attitude.

A jump off is situation in which one has a relationship that is solely sexual in nature. It is an entirely physical interaction. The exchange in and of itself doesn’t have to be cold and unfriendly, but it does have to have a certain amount to detachment to work. People should always be courteous, hospitable, and pleasant in these circumstances; what is absent in these scenarios is a connection between the two participants beyond the temporary merging of genitalia.

Now, I don’t know why this arrangement is met with such derision by so many. So often I hear women say with much scorn and disdain, “well, she’s just a jump off” or “I ain’t trying to be just a jump off”, or men will say “she ain’t nobody, she’s just a jump off”. Why the negativity people? Is it really necessary? If two consenting adults mutually agree to engage in such an arrangement and are honest with themselves and each other about it, what’s the harm? Why the attitude? Why is it so bad?
Why do men feel compelled to accompany the jump off arrangement with a level of contempt, though they still willingly participate in it? Why is that necessary? Do men find it impossible to respect a woman who enters into this situation; are they only capable of having jump offs that they don’t respect on some level? Why the verbal harshness in referring to them? Why is the jump off role in one’s life minimized and trivialized instead of being looked at objectively and honestly? And ladies, some of you seem to equate participation in this kind of thing as something unladylike, that its an indication that something is wrong with the woman that does this, that it means she has low self esteem and doesn’t want more for herself besides jump off status, because of course she MUST want more. Why can’t it be that the woman made a clear decision about what she wanted and is getting exactly that — no more, no less? And why does this mean the man is some kind of man-whore with no respect for women, or no ability to deal with a “real woman” in a “real relationship”? What if he really only wants the sex, and isn’t misleading, hurting, harming or disrespecting the woman? Why the snobbery when it comes to jump off scenarios, especially when a large majority of us, if you reach age 25 and are still single, have either had a jump off, been someone’s jump off, or both, at least once — whether you knew it or not or are willing to admit it or not?

Having said all this, I’ll let you in on an important truth. For the most part, jump offs are myths. They don’t genuinely exist to the extent that rumor would have you to believe they do. True, actual jump offs, where the two parties are just sexual and nothing else are rare. That level of detachment where one shares their body without sharing themselves isn’t easily accomplished by men or women. It is a genderless condition. Very few people can honestly manage it for any extended period of time, and there is a very simple reason why.

Human beings are wired to seek out connections to others. Now please read that correctly — that doesn’t mean they are always seeking romantic love. BUT being human is about the connections we make to other humans — our family, our friends, etc. Those connections are how we know we are alive, they validate our existence, they allow us to find meaning in the time we spend here on Earth. The inability to successfully make those connections is a sign of a greater psychological disorder that we don’t have time to get into here. Now we may get hurt in our relationships, or find ourselves in abusive circumstances that injure our spirits and souls in a way that make it hard for us to reach out to others. In some cases we are so damaged we actively avoid involvements with other people beyond the superficial and necessary. But no matter what we say or do, we still usually stumble upon someone who attracts us, who stimulates our interest, our curiosity, and we attempt to make a connection, even if the connection is just sexual. We may do it badly, awkwardly, or subconsciously. We may do it in a thousand tiny little ways that no one understands but us. But no matter how successful we are at it, we do find ourselves reaching out to connect when we come across people that ignite an undefinable spark in us in the hope of lighting up our cold dark lives, even if we fuck it up because of our own issues.

Because of that, jump offs work like this:

You and said person become sexually involved, and agree that will be the limit of your involvement. Cool. Jump off etiquette requires that you and this person have minimal contact that is not sexual. So you meet, perhaps politely converse while undressing, fuck, and part company.

Now if the sex is not particularly outstanding, it is possible that the jump off status can remain intact for a time. The lack of mind blowing sex makes it easy to keep the contact sporadic and inconsistent, two other key elements to a genuine jump off. A jump off is never someone you fuck regularly, consistently or frequently. As soon as a jump off consumes that much of your time, they are taking up space in your head as well, because if you fuck someone a lot, you think about fucking them a lot. Anyone who takes up that much space in your head isn’t a jump off anymore. They may be a lot less than a boyfriend or girlfriend, but the detachment that is part of being a jump off is gone.

But if the sex was just okay, its not going to hold your interest or attention for long. At some point, whether it takes days, weeks, months or years, you’ll find someone else you like fucking more, or someone else you just like (or someone else you came to like because of fucking them, which we’ll get into in a minute). No matter how it happens, waning interest will usually cause the jump off to die a quiet death.

Now let’s say you like the sex. Let’s even say you love it. The earth moved and the angels wept, etc. If that was the case, you are not going to be willing to make hooking up an occasional occurance. Something in you was touched; you have been moved. A connection was made somewhere inside you, even if it was made in your sex organs…those connections count too. So now you want to spend more time fucking this person. Spending more time with a person, even if its spent fucking, invariably leads to more opportunity to get to know a person. And getting to know a person can often lead to getting to like a person. Liking a person has a way of leading to finding ways to spend time with a person. And when that happens, its clearly no longer a jump off. Again, it may be less than a spouse, but its no longer a jump off.

The space between jump off and committed relationship is a huge one. It is the largest gray area in all of human existence, and truthfully, it is the area a lot of our personal relationships operate in. Many of us have that person we are intimate with, who has clearly stopped being jump off status a while ago, (even if this hasn’t been verbally acknowlewdged by either party), who has yet to fully, openly, and willingly shoulder all the burdens of a committed relationship. They might appear to in their actions at times, but the “out” is always there — the “out” being that the person never agreed to a change in their status, and you can’t change a person’s relationship status without their consent. That “out” is the single most frustrating thing about this vast gray area in which most relationships exist. So these gray area living/extended and remixed jump off situations become like giant relationship waiting rooms…the places where people pass the time hoping their conditions improve.

The other big myth surrounding the jump off scenario is that it can’t change. That isn’t true at all. In my experience and observation, a situation like this has just as much of a chance of surviving as any other kind of relationship. But if it is going to change into a more “official” relationship, one of the parties involved is going to have to request a change in relationship status. And making that kind of request is a huge risk; you must be prepared to forfeit everything you already have with this person. It is truly an “all or nothing” proposition. Because if the other party doesn’t agree to the status change, the relationship is over, or will be over soon. Why? Because one party has made it known they aren’t satisfied with the current state of affairs, and the other party isn’t going to wait for the dissatisfaction to make itself felt in other ways. Most people are cowards, and just ride along, sorta kinda mostly cool with how things are but still secretly hoping that one day they are offered all the keys to the kingdom.

My finals words on the topic are simple: never let anyone make you feel bad about FEELING something for someone else, even if it is the wrong person. As long as you have it in you to care about someone else, all you need to adjust is your selection process. That is a much easier task than the alternative; it is much harder to teach someone to feel once they have lost their ability to do it. And while jump offs may not really exist like you thought they did, what does exist is a world full of people looking for shelter from the unforgiving harsh world…people who want to care who have lost their way…people who carry heavy loads, manage deep searing pain and hide ugly scars the best way they know how. Sometime they may seek temporary shelter from their most personal storms in your most personal space if you allow it. They may decide to stay. They may not. But no matter what the case, don’t lose sight of who you are in the midst of it all. Because at the end of the day, you are the only you you’ve got.