Because I felt like sharing a little something that sat down in my spirit and had itself a peaceful rest.
Lady Obama spews long, overdue venom in the direction of a
man who believes Black people aren’t suitable for various
jobs birthed of and around their upper echelon counterparts;
and it’s a clapback doused in class.
Happy Friday, beautiful people!
I love the fact that I have family members and friends who recommend books or buy them for me when they KNOW I’ll love the content.
In the book, Shonda speaks about how a comment from her sister about her limitations of herself regarding fears prevents her from saying yes to anything, and that jolted something alive in her to change that.
A younger cousin of mine told me about Shonda Rhimes’ Year of Yes because she truly enjoyed it in its audiobook form. She gave me the gist of it and hyped it up enthusiastically, too.
I had to see for myself, and I’m glad I did. Here is the Amazon review for it:
“My Cousin Recommended This Book!
And I’m awfully glad she did! Firstly, I didn’t expect to read what I just read. I’ll be honest, I didn’t know what to expect.
It’s Shonda Rhimes! Of course, I was thinking, in the back of my mind, the woman can downright write, so it ought to be good. But this was/is much better than good. It’s phenomenal!
Secondly, I hadn’t factored in the reality that she’d let us into her personal life just a bit with this book, and lo and behold, she did!
I felt like a member of her family thumbing through the pages, laughing, sighing, and crying. Not only is Year of Yes well-written, it is full of humor and grit and witty retorts.
I sank into so many scenes as they were told from the writer’s point of view and recollection. I connected with various happenings in her life as a writer, and her love life reminded me of mine as well.
There is so much to explore and unpack in this book, and I am happy to have had the opportunity to do so. I assure you, it IS a work of art that is worth your time.”
I absolutely adore it when a recommendation does not steer me wrong. And this book is now a favorite of mine!
It was a humid Sunday morning, and I was washing my hands at the sink in the women’s bathroom of my then church. A fellow usher/acquaintance came thundering through the door.
Her glasses were tilted slightly, her forehead had several beads of sweat congregating on it like the people in the pews of the sanctuary. She huffed and puffed and nearly blew the walls down, and then loudly said to me . . .
“Tre, girl!!! Help me!”
Before I could respond, this acquaintance lifted up her form-fitting black dress to her hips and tugged at a modern-day corset that seemed to be making its way down a path it was not supposed to go.
I stood there for a few seconds with wet hands, perplexed by this human who was exasperated and waiting for my assistance. I quickly dried my hands.
This was new territory for me. So many questions were running through my mind. What do I do? Where do I start? Should we just remove this thing altogether?! Why is she even asking me for help?!
So, I did what any nervously questioning human being would do. I slowly stepped behind her and said, “What do I do?”
She began pulling her dress up even further and then called instructions out to me military style. This isn’t the kind of company I’d normally keep and at this intimate level of care, I worried that I was going to do something wrong.
“Pull the Spanx down, while I shimmy out of it.” Everything floated through my highly anointed yet VERY bisexual mind as I listened to this attractive woman in obvious discomfort instruct me on how to remove a conflicted piece of clothing from her voluptuous and striking body.
DO WHAT?! YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?!
I coughed to signal nervousness and then cleared my throat. “You want me to do what now, Jewel?!”
“Pull it down while I try to shimmy free. But don’t pull at it hard, pull slowly. Be gentle. Don’t tear the sides.”
UM . . .
This was my first real encounter with Spanx. The way my brain works is I began wondering why she put this God-forsaken thing on in the first place. Let your curves be free, love . . . is what I truly wanted to say. But she was wearing a form-fitting black dress, in church, during the summer months, and maybe there was something beneficial I didn’t know about to this torture.
I tugged at what felt like leather hide for minutes while she wiggled her hips feverishly to escape the clutches of the manufactured bone-crushing fabric. What seemed like forever, but was probably more like five minutes later, she was free.
She pushed her glasses perfectly on her nose, smoothed her dress down, tidied up her bun, folded the Spanx up and slapped them in her purse, then called to me . . . “Ooh, Tre! Girl, you are a lifesaver! Thank you!”
I shook my head in total disbelief but I didn’t want to be rude. “Cool beans, Jewel. You’re most welcome.”
After she left the bathroom, I washed my hands again, stared at the mirror, and said to myself, “What in the world just happened?”
A fellow usher/acquaintance was being tortured by a piece of clothing, and well . . . it was my calling to help.
*Names changed for the purposes of privacy and respect.
Stop Telling Women To Smile by Tatyana Fazlalizadeh is a gut punch of a book, and I enjoyed reading it!
I had no doubt that I would. It has the author’s voice, her passion, and the intensity for the importance of the topic at hand shines through each page effortlessly.
The Amazon review is below:
“STWTS Should Be Taught In Sex & Gender Courses.
And I say this, having had my stent in one such class while in college, and if I was assigned this book to read, I probably would have felt as if I learned more.
It is a beautiful thing to be able to see words within pages that perfectly describe what I have felt–still feel sometimes about street harassment and the various interactions I’ve had with men while in public.
It is a VERY real thing and should not be brushed aside or swept under the proverbial rug.
The artwork accompanying the stories helps to drive the power of the words home as well as what every woman, non-binary person, and trans-woman has experienced and how street harassment has shaped their lives. You can see the strain and exhaustion on every face.
It also opens a door to dialogue and the changes men must make for this issue to become a non-issue.
The author/artist did a phenomenal job with this book, and I am happy to have it as a part of my collection and favorite reads.”
The final book to Michele Lee Sefton‘s Being a Woman project is Forthcoming.
It is the perfect way to complete a series. Out of all three, though, the first book is my favorite. It set the tone for the project and had the most impactful words within it.
Below is my Amazon review:
“Emotionally Charged, Binding Poetry.
In this third offering from the “Being a Woman,” project, “Forthcoming” took what I thought was a completely different turn, but this did not dampen or lessen the strength and depth of the poems shared.
Michele shone a light on the dearly departed, the forgotten, the worried, the weakened, and the powerful in this book.
It was easy to connect with quite a few poems and allow my emotions to get the best of me: I felt something. And I assume that’s exactly what the author wants.
Ending the collection, “Forthcoming” finishes on a high note with its last offering, “Return Home”, which solidifies the book in a huge way, and allows the reader to breathe a sigh of relief.
If you haven’t already made this book one of your own, I suggest that you do, and soon.”
Does anyone else need to attend a Books Anonymous meeting or two or three?!
many of us perform
on stages of our
own making which later
become our undoing,
yet we wonder why we
falter.
my new neighbor has
a funky attitude but
she owns a dog, and I
find that mysteriously intriguing.
how can you be callous and
care for something the
complete opposite of that?
I speak when I see her,
acknowledge her curt stares,
and nod to display kindness,
and that is the extent of
our exchanges.
I miss my old neighbor.
she moved about two months
ago to be on a stage
that life planned for her;
homeowner . . .
she doesn’t like her new
neighbors, either.
says they let their Pit
run amuck and loudly
bark at the comings and goings
of others.
she sends me text messages
saying she may have made
a mistake.
and I don’t want to agree, but
I don’t like this new neighbor,
so in my heart of hearts,
I secretly concur but instead
say, “Give it a bit more
time. It may end up surprising
you. None of us really ever
loves change.”
and on this stage I’ve
built for myself, I’m patiently
waiting for a future that
could lend me more
happiness.
of late, I’ve been searching
for it and it has been elusive.
but there’s always tomorrow.
He answered the call at 12:47 AM in a panic. “Next of Kin” meant waking up at all hours of the night when your big sister has done something unthinkable.
“Can you come in to identify the body?”
Can I do what?! She did what?! How was her mental health?! If she jumped from the 14th floor of her building, what is left for me to identify?!
Thunder roared, and the midnight rain poured like it would be the last.
Maybe she wanted to die first . . .
Maybe that’s why she did it.
A Cornered Gurl 
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