Fifth grade was a revealing year, well, in life for me. It was when the Black history aka the “slavery” section of social studies caused me to protest class in a pool of tears, an array of quiet shouts and an eventual “honorable dismiss” from class. It was the year I got my period. It’s probably the hormones in the chicken or something. My boobs jumped up from a nothing cup to a C cup overnight somehow. I discovered that I was good at math (up until Pre-Calculus in high school). “Say No To Drugs” was a thriving piece of propaganda that worked on me until New York. But the thing that has stayed with me all these years of development was writing.
I remember my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Fitzpatrick from Rhode Island, had assigned the class some creative writing homework. I thrived and actually enjoyed it. In fact, I received some town-wide recognition and won a writing contest of some sort that year because of her encouraging me in this craft.
While I almost became a physical therapist upon graduating from high school, I did end up pursuing a journalism career and moved forward with this whole writing thing. My decision was about whether or not I was going to be making a real impact in the world. As a physical therapist, I’d definitely be making money and have the opportunity to caress male athletes’ booties (because that’s the reason I wanted to do it). I’ll tell you that story real quick.
I was on the basketball team in high school and all the athletic teams shared fields, courts, and weight rooms. One weight room day, I stepped outside because the varsity football team was doing some conditioning on the auxiliary field adjacent to the weight room. I had lust crush on this mixed boy who was one of the most popular boys in school. He was extra cute and had a delicious booty. So I stepped out of the weight room and there he was, squatting over with his shirt off and booty mid-air. It was over. I decided I needed to either be an andrologist or a physical therapist. I didn’t know the name of that doctor at the time (barely at this time. Google is smart), even though my anatomy teacher told me like a million times. So I went for physical therapist. I’d make money, be around athletes and massage man booties. These were my life goals. See, and the boys at school thought I was a lesbian. Ha!
At any rate, being a physical therapist was not going to be as satisfying as I truly wanted, I had decided. And now that I’m a professional writer (oooh, that puts some sort of expectation on my writing now), I share stories and information that’s sometimes helpful, funny, galvanizing, or just kind of boring. Sometimes so boring that I’m bored of reading my own stuff.
I don’t want that boring stuff to happen as frequently as it does anymore and I want to share some personal experiences with others. While some of these stories may be entertaining, others may be blood boiling, controversial, cringe worthy, and tear jerking, or just sort of interesting.
This part of my writing is in large, part of a decision to put myself all the way out there. In college my closest friends would complain about me always interviewing them and seeming detached or invulnerable. One of my exes would get into tiffs about me seeming indifferent about things.
That impacted me. I’m now at this point where I believe if all of us were more honest and open with one another about the shit in our lives we’d have better relationships first with ourselves and then with others. Masking my flaws, issues, ideas, confusion and whatever internal stuff there is, behind a smiling face and lots of interview questions was preventing me from getting close and touching people the way I desired.
So in this season of my very personal journey, I am sharing my life accounts, thoughts, musings, events and fuck ups as my way of being ultra vulnerable and honest with myself and with you. Enjoy!