Presidential Matters

Until now, I have remained silent about how the President and his family have been treated by the Republican Party since his historic election, but I must address the recent disrespectful remarks made by a GOP staffer about Obama's two daughters.  If you haven't read it, you can read it here.

I won't muddy the water by hypothesizing the source of this disrespect, so I will simply comment on a few lines:

1)  "Try showing a little class."  To suggest that the President's daughters don't have class because they showed visible disinterest in a White House tradition that carries no weight in the scheme of anything is unmerited and atrociously condescending.

2) "At least respect the part you play." What teenager (or adult for that matter) hasn't been caught rolling their eyes or crossing their arms when being forced to do something they really didn't want to do?  But to suggest that this one moment is representative of the level of respect that they have for what it means to be the first daughters is unfair and hyper-critical.  These young ladies show respect every time they put on a dress that they don't want to because they have to attend some national or international event, every time they smile when they don't want to cause they know that a camera is on, every time they are nice to people even when they are mistreated (cause they know that people are waiting to catch them do one negative thing...), and every moment that they have to share their private family moments with the White House photographer.  So I ain't trippin over some eyes rollin over some White House turkey pardon. (Especially when our country is bleeding due to the unnecessary loss of lives of young black men across the nation as a result of "policing.")

3) "Then again your mother and father don't respect their positions very much, or the nation for that matter..."  Say what?!  Did the communications director for Rep. Stephen Fincher,  a Republican from Tennessee) just say that the President of the United States respects neither the position nor the nation?  Did a woman whose job it is to be diplomatic, politically correct, and non-controversial just show complete disrespect towards not just President Obama, but the Office of the President, plus his teenage daughters?  And did she do this when the President has clearly and repeatedly said that his daughters are to be left out of all public critique and criticism?  

Did she just do that?  And with a tone that was dripping with sarcasm and disdain?  Doesn't her post constitute a thoughtful, deliberate, defiant act against the President, which is the ultimate sign of disrespect?

I'm sorry, but when did it become okay to treat the President like this?  To talk about the President like this?  For decades, it is customary and expected that elected officials (and their staff) show respect to the President because it's synonymous with showing respect to the Office of the President.  That's why you see members of the party that is not in office standing and smiling begrudgingly whenever the current President gives the annual State of the Union address.  They don't have to agree with anything that is being said, but they do have to stand, smile and applaud, and it's always obvious to anyone watching that they are doing it out of respect for the Office, and not because they support what's happening—perhaps similarly to how Sasha and Malia stood and looked?

4)  "Dress like you deserve respect, not a spot at a bar."  Um, okay.  So young ladies who dress like most teenage girls in America (and perhaps a little bit more conservatively) don't deserve respect? Okay, so since they don't deserve respect like the girls who wear ankle-length skirts, do they also deserve to be raped?  Because if we read into what this staffer is really saying, the Obama girls are classless teenage girls who don't deserve respect and should be sitting at a bar, obviously waiting to be disrespected by some "low" or "no" class men.  WTH?  Maybe this staffer was confusing these first daughters with two others?

There's more that I can say, but I won't cause my blood pressure is risin and I don't wanna give her post too much more time and thought.  So in conclusion I will say this:

This GOP staffer communicates for a living.  She crafted the tone, words, and images purposefully and skillfully.  I am tempted to call her and her post classless, but that word is just too distasteful and... classless.

Spread the Love Blog Tour: My Writing Process

what are you working on?

What am I working on?  What am I not working on?  At the top of the year, this prodigal writer returned to the blog that she had forsaken because she took a sabbatical to care for her soul.  It worked.  I'm back.  So I'm always working on this blog—thinking of what I want to say.  Also, I'm working on some essays, including one about African American women and the U.S. feminist movement, PLUS a sketch comedy piece.  My most precious project, a partial book draft tentatively titled "Young, Christian and Black," sits on my  bookshelf, collecting dust, waiting for the day when I feel it's right to return to it.

how does your work differ from others of your genre?

I tend to write spiritually-infused social commentaries on what's happening in the news, pop culture, and my life.  A book lovin', cross-carryin', Jesus followin', African American woman living as an entrepreneur-artist in arguably the most self-absorbed city in the world (L.A.), I tend to write cultural critiques, that are (hopefully) inspiring as well as challenging. I speak from a place of honesty and vulnerability.  Sometimes, I say things that will get me blacklisted, and I'm afraid, but I say them anyway.  

why do you write/create what you do?

I write because i have to.  It's how I make sense of the world, and my life.  I write because it unclogs me.  I write because in 2006 a voice told me to write, and pursuing life as a professional writer has been one of the most life-giving endeavors I've ever pursued.  I write because our world needs more voices that make us look within.

how does your writing/creative process work?

All of my work stems from ideas.  Some ideas hit like quick flashes of lightning; others are like spring showers that speak to me for weeks.  I do my best to honor these ideas.  I record them everywhere—in

voice memos  notebooks, journals, scraps of paper.  Then, I let them stew (for hours, days, months), and finally I sit down at my laptop to let them loose!  Some ideas are conveyed quickly, in a blog post that takes an hour to write.  Others take a few sittings and require more refined thinking and a little Internet research. Others take either weeks, or maybe years to flesh out because I'm still trying to figure out 1) exactly what I want to say,  2) the best way to communicate it to the reader, and 3) the right words to use.  

A recovering perfectionist, sometimes I spend minutes scouring dictionary.com for the perfect word to complete a sentence.   Other times, I let it slide, telling myself that putting something out now is much better than waiting a few days until I get more time, because that day may never come.

When I finish writing a piece, a feeling of satisfaction and peace envelopes me.  There is a sense that my gift to the reader is also a gift to myself.

meet a few of my blogging buddies…

I know AmberAwosanya through church.  She's getting her MFA in writing.   Her blog, FromUnderTheNet is where she posts first drafts of short non-fiction bits she is working on from the experiences of her and her interracial family and their life in Uganda.

I met SamanthaButler when she was a student at UCLA.  She's a teacher and writer. Her work consists of short stories, executed writing exercises, poems and life stories: LeeParkerWritings  

Lastly, I'd like to give a HUGE shout out to Grace Sandra, the woman who tagged me in the #ShareTheLove blog tour.  We were in a leadership development cohort when we worked for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship USA.  She is one of the most vulnerable bloggers I know. Here is what she says about how her writing differs from that of other writers:  “I’m a human. I’m a sinner. I suck. I am loved by God. The end.  That’s my genre.  My story.”

Check out these ladies. They rock’n’roll!

Adventures in Online Dating

So what have I been up to lately???  Well besides being insanely busy with my freelance work, I started doing some research that led me to an online dating site. (If you wanna know more, just ask.) I wanted to share my experiences here on this blog ‘cause everything’s online now anyway, right? (jewelry, husbands, babies!)   Here’s what I’ve discovered:

·         Online dating is a world of its on.  It’s a world where you can be anyone you wanna be—a retired firefighter, a successful businesswoman, or you (only 15 pounds lighter and 10 years younger).  You can be that person for as long as you want—well, until you have to meet someone face to face and they realize that 12 is your clothes size and the number of times you’ve turned 25.

·         Online is where you present your idealized self—the one you’ve always hoped to be, the one you’re working on, slowly.  (Sure, you love to work out!  You just don’t do it often because you’re too busy.)

·         Looking for dates online can feel like you’re shopping for clothes: “too big, too short, not my style…”  (If you’re not careful, it can lead to dehumanizing people: click, delete, click, delete.) 

·         It’s easy to feel overwhelmed with all of the choices, like when you receive a gift card to your favorite shoe store and they’re having a sale on the whole store!  (WAY too many options.)

·         You can learn a lot about someone by the pictures that they choose to display, especially their main profile pic.  My favorite pictures are those that show those pearly whites.  (The “I’m a thug” photos don’t really radiate “Hi, I’m a friendly man who could father your children.”)   My profile picture is above.  What do you think that it says about me?

·         A lot of people write similar things like “I’m laid back, easy going.”  Or “Communication & trust are most important.”  I like it when someone says something unusual. One guy I came across had a riddle in his description.  Another emailed a poem.

·         Important Tip:  Working on your external marketing is just as important as your internal character.  (If no one ever bothers to stop by your page, what good does it do you to be so fabulous?)

·         too much typin is involved.  Makes your get lazy, but then you want pple to know that u really can spill. 

·         I would LOVE to hear about your online dating experiences!  (Feel free to call me, if you prefer to keep your online escapades “private.”)

Birthday Confessions

August 29^th ushered in another year of life for me, and I’m not afraid to admit that I see my body changing.  When I turned 25, I noticed that my body’s natural lean was disappearing, and that the only way to make it reappear was to torture my body with consistent gym workouts.  Since then I have watched black hairs turn grey, (sometimes overnight), noticed small lines around my mouth, and observed teeny tiny black marks plop themselves on my face, foreshadowing where moles will emerge.

But I’m not upset about any of it.  It’s a sign that I’m growing up, proof that my body is maturing, just like the rest of me.  It suggests that perhaps a little bit of wisdom resides in my no-longer-twenty-one-year-old body.  What I’m upset with is what I didn’t know about aging; I’m upset about all of the stuff that people didn’t tell me.

I didn’t know that grey hair can come as early as your mid-to-late twenties…until it happened to me.  Turns out that most people either dye their hair or get cellophanes to cover these hairs, which is what I did this year for the first time. (The TV camera doesn’t like grey on people who aren’t “old.”)  And it was only a few years ago that someone told me that some women become slightly incontinent after birthing children.  As the older women in my life experience menopause, I’m learning that hot flashes aren’t the only symptoms; Thinning hair and fatigue are too.

Last week, while typing away on my laptop, I caught a few minutes of ABC’s The View.  In the middle of the show, Whoopi Goldberg laughed and then said, “Whew!  I just had a hot flash. My underwear are drenched!”  I laughed and appreciated Whoopi’s honesty.  Who says stuff like that?  And on TV?

As I mature in age, especially as a woman who works in entertainment, I wanna appreciate all of the changes and be honest about them, so that the women who come after me can embrace these changes when they experience them, and tell themselves, “Happy Birthday, Girl!  You’ve earned every year.”

Help Wanted, Help Needed

Have you ever feel like everyone around you felt one way about something, but you felt another way, but were afraid to say anything? Well, that’s how I’ve felt about the movie, “The Help.”  Lots of my friends and colleagues have raved about how good the movie is, but I haven’t been able to celebrate the movie.  As a student who majored in Media Studies in college, (looking specifically at how women and people of color are portrayed in TV and film), I can’t help but notice the dearth of roles for women of color in Hollywood.  And as a black woman, I can’t help but notice that when we are portrayed on screen, it’s often as a sexpot (hoochie or otherwise), or in a completely non-sexual way (like a maid or a grandma). 

Although I could easily write a dissertation about this (and I’m sure that many have been written about this topic), I will keep this short: I’m tired of Hollywood telling the same stories about black people on the movie screen. I’m tired of slave narratives, stories about when we were oppressed, stories about the first African American to ____ (just fill in the blank with any first that you could imagine—like the first to ride a hot air balloon across the U.S. alone, while brushing his teeth).  I’m tired of biopic, “Oscar-worthy” performances that show us as subservient, oppressed beings, or those who rise from the ashes of oppression to the heights of success. I’m tired of stories that focus on the bleakness of our past, while ignoring the brightness of our present.  But more than this, I am tired of stories about black people, written by white people. (Hopefully I didn’t offend anyone with that statement.)  What I mean is that the author of a story (whatever that story might be), tells the story from his/her perspective, even if it’s she/he is just the interviewer because the interviewer shapes and hence begins to outline the story even as she compiles questions.  And then the editor takes those answers and edits the interviews to weave together a story.  And while all voices are valid and needed, an anthology of stories about poor, oppressed, or otherwise marginalized black people written by white people feels incomplete and culturally biased.

But my problem with “The Help” doesn’t stop here.  The author of the book wanted black women’s stories to be told in their own words, from their own perspective.  However, when I looked at the film adaptation, I couldn’t help but feel that the story was told form the white protagonist’s perspective.  (Was that just me?)  Yes, we got a look at the lives of the maids, but I felt that the story was driven by the thoughts and actions of the white character.  And if that’s so, doesn’t that go against the book’s purpose and premise?  (Now, I only saw the movie one time, so maybe a second look would warrant a different response.)

What are your thoughts? 

Imagine

Sometimes, I wonder what our culture would be like if things were different--if we as individuals and as a society became disoriented, and then oriented--anew.

What if we valued time with friends more than our facebook chats with them?  What if we valued time with our familes more than making extra money for them through overtime?  What if we valued women's natural bodies over the photoshopped ones plastered on the covers of magazines?  What if we valued patience more than convenience?  Working hard more than playing hard?  Justice over retribution?  What is we valued our relationships more than being proven right in them?  What if we valued healthy eating over just grabbbing what's convenient while on the go?  What if we truly valued and esteemed a woman's decision to be a stay-at-home mom?  What if we valued God's Word over our opinions?  What if we valued equality in gender differences versus exalting one gender above the other?  What if we valued giving over getting?  Giving more than loaning?  What if?

Sunday, I splurged.  I went to the nail shop and paid for a pedicure.  I say "splurged" because I am notoriously cheap, especially for things that I consider to be luxurious, like paying someone to cut and polish your nails.  But on Sunday, I had a beauty emergency.  My nails had been chipped for a week, I was embarrassed every time I put on my summer sandals or open-toed high heels, and I had an audition the following day.


Why didn't I do them myself?  Well, my schedule was crazy busy, and did I mention that I can't stand to do my nails?  I never know what to do with the accumulation of dead skin cells that eventually populate the crevices of my toe nails.  (TMI?) Sorry.  And when I do take the time to do them, they look better, but not much.


For years I have avoided the nail shop.  I've never wanted to be the all-too-typical American woman consumed by her looks, plus I haven't wanted to be the black "ghetto girl" who couldn't go out for the weekend if her hair and nails weren't done and she hadn't spent at least $100.  Plus, I didn't like the dynamics of most of the nail shops in "urban areas" commonly known as "the hood." Picture this:  nearly a dozen non-English and barely-English speaking Vietnamese women with hunched backs, each scraping black and brown feet, with white masks protecting their nostrils from (toxic?) fumes.


One could easily make a case that it is a legalized sweat shop.  Breaks are taken, but they are neither long nor frequent.  And although the women probably make minimum wage, it's probably no where near a living wage.  How do they survive?


I sit down hesitantly.  "You want nail done?" "Yes," I respond.  It doesn't feel right to start reading my book right away while a woman sits hunched over my dirty feet.  So, I begin a conversation.   The woman tending my feet is named Mary Anne.  She arrived from Vietnam six years before; She has been working at the nail shop for five years. I try to ask her more questions, but she doesn't understand me.  She just smiles and looks at me.


I smile back and eventually begin to read.  Twenty minutes later, I thank her, profusely. My nails look great. Better than anything I have ever done.  I give her a generous tip and walk out of the door, hobbling so that I don't mess up my paint job.


Now, every time I look at my toes, I think about Mary Anne.  Does she make enough to support herself? Does she live in a house with other immigrants? She said that she likes the States, but is life here better than the life that she had in Vietnam?

Making the Least of It

A few weeks ago, I entered the scariest season of my life.  I felt a mass in my right breast, and a cloud of questions and fears enveloped me, ironically clearing my vision.


Questions emerged: What if I only have one year left to live?  Two?  Three? What would I do? What would I not do?


I realized that I would:

• Hike, and Swim, and Be Outside more.
• Write more about my life following Jesus, as it has been the joy of my life.
• Smile.  Because smiling is so much more fun than frowning.
• Get married. (Cause I want to share my life with someone.)  And have sex.

I realized that I wouldn't:

• Worry about my life and future plans.
• Care about what people think about me. (Any more than I currently don't.)
• Buy many more material things. Instead, I'd just give the money away.
• Do any work that doesn't bring me joy.
• Complain about the end being near because every single day has been a gift from God.

So, instead of doing more with my life, I find myself wanting to do less.

Imagined Beauties

"Photoshopped women who don't really exist..."  The words stung as I read them.  They stung because although I know that the images that I see on the cover of People and Essence aren't real, I am tempted to believe that they are, and worse—to want to look like them.  But the images are altered, crafted for hours to perfection or near perfection.  

I know firsthand the power of Photoshop.  With the click of a mouse, a pimple can disappear and a nose can suddenly appear more defined.  Cheekbones can protrude, and eyelashes can pop.

So today, I will show some images of myself—some natural, some retouched, and others completely untouched, but with make-up. What is real? What's been altered?  Can you guess?

 Photo 1

Photo 2

Photo 3

Photo 4

 Photo 5

 Photo 6

Answer Key:


Photo 1: Make-up, Un-retouched
Photo 2:  No Make-up, Un-retouched
Photo 3:  Make-up, Un-retouched
Photo 4:  Make-up, Retouched
Photo 5:  Make-up, Un-retouched
Photo 6:  Make-up, Retouched

Choices, Choices!

It's been said that we are the sum total of our choices.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about choice, and how our desires fuel it. I've asked myself, "What do I wanna do with my life, really? Has it deviated from what I've wanted for years, if only slightly, or is it the same? How does starting a family (getting married and having a baby) fit into what I want career-wise? Does having one automatically rule out the other, or is it possible to do them both with grace, style, and most importantly—sanity? How have other goal-oriented women answered these questions?"

While the answers are a bit opaque presently, I do know that the choices that I make now will affect what happens in the future.

Choice is an interesting concept. Sometimes it has small consequences: The caramel macchiato that you order at Starbucks may not have a long-term effect on your life, but it could give you gas for a day, if you're lactose intolerant.

 Other times, there are more significant consequences: Choosing to quit your demanding, stress-inducing job before you secure another one could leave you unemployed for a several months, happy but broke.

Whether the consequences are great or small, however, choosing well is important. Choosing to have that drink at Starbucks could be a really bad idea if you have a big presentation where you need to make a good impression. And being broke and unemployed is hardly ever a good idea, for you or your family and friends.

This year, my prayer is that I can make really wise choices—those that will benefit me now and in the future, as well as any new family members who might come along.

 Cheers to Good Choices!


-Chante

What Would Oprah Do?

Ladies & Gents, she's done it again!  The Queen of Talk, Oprah Winfrey, AKA the Queen of Giving, has made television history by giving away the most elaborate collection of gifts, worth tens of thousands of dollars, to her studio audience during her Oprah's Favorite Things show.

For starters, instead of just hosting her usual Oprah's Favorite Things show, she hosted two of them—all for people who have shown extraordinary altruism in their lives.  

Then, she lavished her audience with gifts so amazing that the Paramedics were there on stand-by, just in case.

The first group received (among other things), a 7-day Royal Caribbean Cruise, a 3-D  Sony HDTV, and an Oprah 25th anniversary watch (worth nearly $2500).  The second group received an iPad, diamond earrings, and a Volkswagen 2012 Beetle.  In total, both audiences received forty-four gifts, ranging from items as practical as winter sweaters, to gifts as extravagant as diamond watches.

While hearing my mom enviously describe the gifts that O’s audience received, I couldn’t help but think that this is how God blesses us—in abundance, beyond what is socially acceptable, surpassing what has ever been done before. He blesses us both materially and spiritually, but sometimes it’s so much that others look on in disbelief, their eyes secretly coveting what we have, whether it’s our unexplainable peace or a new car.

In John 12, we see a woman named Mary pouring an expensive perfume (worth about a year’s wages) onto Jesus’ feet.  She is anointing Jesus, a lavish gesture, but the onlookers say that the gift is a waste, too much to give at once.  Thinking about this story, I can't help but think that this is her gesture of love, how she chooses to give to Him.  And this too is how He chooses to give to us.

What Would Jesus Do? He would and does give extravagantly, beyond what Ms. Winfrey and her sponsors are capable of.  Why?  To show us that He loves to give to us, that He is the ultimate gift giver.  A very Merry Christmas (and life) indeed.

Oprah's Favorite Things

For several years, I’ve dreamed about flying to Chicago to sit in the audience of The Oprah Winfrey Show.  And for the last few years, I've secretly hoped / half-heartedly prayed that I would be fortunate enough to get a ticket to Oprah's Favorite Things episode, the most valuable ticket in TV, more valuable perhaps than Charlie’s golden ticket.  I imagined the novel items I would return home with (edible lip gloss, a watch that takes photos, and kindles that come with one hundred free reads); I even made a pact with God: If I got a ticket, being the altruistic Christian that I am supposed to be, I would keep only one gift, and give the rest away, either -- to charity or to my friends and family.  But unfortunately, that prayer went unanswered because today, I'll be watching Oprah's Favorite Things on TV, like everyone else, praying that I don’t slightly covet some of the items that her audience is receiving.

What will she give away today?  Video cams? Cars?  Trips around the globe? She's done it all before.  It has to be spectacular.  It is the last one.  For Christmas, that is.

Given that I do love to give presents and I wouldn't mind having my own show one day, I've created a list of Chante’s Favorite Things, things that I would give away if I had a show and cool free gifts to give to my audience of women who would start to cry before they saw the first gift.

Chante’s Favorite Things

Striped Flannel Pajamas (The vertical stripes with fun colors, cause if you’re gonna wear flannel, they might as well look kinda cool.)

Warm, Fuzzy Socks (Cause if your feet are cold…)

A Plush Robe (I think you get the point by now.)

The Very Best of Fred Hammond CD (This is my favorite musical artist.  His music is funky, fun, heartfelt, and uplifting.)

The NIV Teen Study Bible  (This is the very first Bible that I owned. It’s cool, colorful, and a great way to introduce a teen or young person to God.)

My Mom’s Fried Chicken Recipe (We really are thinking about packaging it and selling it, it’s that good.)

Something Chocolate (Cause chocolate makes everything better!)

The BlackBerry Curve 3G Smartphone (I just got it and I’m as happy as a logophile with an electronic dictionary.)

The iPad (Why? Because it just looks cool and you can do everything with it, except maybe cook dinner, although I’m sure that you can find instructions on how to on it.)

20 lbs of Firewood (Cause nothing goes better with the winter cold than a nice fire.)

A fireplace installation, in case you don’t have one (Cause isn’t that what Oprah would do?)

If I do end up with my own talk show one day, maybe I’ll actually be able to give out these treats.  Now wouldn’t that be something?

Where's the Party At?

The woman two rows in front of me wears a beautiful lavender satin dress, sleeveless, revealing her brown skin, knee-length, with a white petticoat underneath. I know it's white because the white netting peaks out cautiously underneath the lavender fabric. She lifts her hands, singing. Rhinestone drop earrings dangle from her ears, reflecting small rays of light around the church as she moves her arms and body back and forth and back and forth in praise. I stare at her. She's wearing a party dress, to church. Last week, she wore a black, floor-length gown. Why?


I watch her worship, and I begin to know. Going to church isn't just a mundane, weekly routine. To her, going to God's house is special, something to celebrate each and every week. Rhinestones are her way of setting Sunday a part. Satin--her way of celebrating the sabbath. She would never dare wear jeans. She dresses up because it's important to her.

And although I don't believe that what you wear to church is as important as the fact that you come, I celebrate her celebration. In fact, I want to emulate it. This next week, I just might show up at one of my friend's houses in a ball gown, high heels, and my pearl necklace, just to let her know how important she is to me!

Make-UpLogy

Today I shot a commercial for Living Spaces.  One thing I love about being on camera is that you get to go through "Hair & Make-Up," where your make-up is applied by a professional (who usually spends about an hour on you face, meticulously grooming every part of it {from your eyelashes, to your eyebrows, to any other facial hair that otherwise shouldn't be there}).  Then that same person (or a different one) curls, pins, pulls, and sprays your hair, primping it to camera perfection.

This evening, before I washed off all of my make-up, I looked at my face in the mirror.  It looked perfect.  My skin looked even and flawless, my cheeks were rosy.  I smiled.  As the cloth began to wipe away the make-up, however, I begin to see the many imperfections: the uneven skin tone, the dark areas under my eyes (from years of wearing heavy glasses), and the tiny dark spots, small reminders of blemishes of former days.

Then it hit me: This is how God sees his children.  Those us of who have been reconciled to Him through Christ are cleansed from all impurities and imperfections through Christ's blood.  We aren't perfect (no--we are often selfish and proud and have been known to tell a lie or two, ... or twenty), but to Him, it's as if we've never done any wrong, as if we've never sinned.  We are flawless.  When He looks at us, he sees no inconsistencies, no dark areas, no signs of past mistakes.  We are camera-ready, picture perfect.  We are his children.  He smiles.

For this I'm thankful.  (And for my Bobbi Brown Moisture Rich Foundation. It works wonders!)

It's SO Easy!

Reebok’s ad for its new EasyTone tennis shoes caught my eye on TV last night. Like SKECHERS Shape Ups, these shoes promise to help strengthen your legs, while increasing tone in your legs, thighs, and butt. Only they’re cuter. “Ooh!” I thought immediately. “Maybe I should get some.”




Then, just as quickly, another part of me countered with, “Here’s another product to help me fix something that’s ‘wrong’ with me.” And then my mind became flooded with a long list of products designed to fix women and make us beautiful, finally. There’s Revitalash, guaranteed to grow your eyelashes, LipFusion, guaranteed to plump up your lips (or Maybelline’s Volume XL Seduction Lip if you just want them to look pumped), there’s Botox, guaranteed to reduce your wrinkles, and the LAP BAND Surgery, guaranteed to permanently control your waistline. And it’s all scientifically proven!




Watching this Reebok ad made me realize that I’m tired of not liking parts of myself. (And I’m not talking about bad habits or poor character.) I’m tired of thinking that I need to be taller, that I need to have and legs that are more toned, plus a tight bottom, perfect for a pair of Apple Bottom jeans. I’m tired of freaking out about the newly emerging grey hairs sprouting in my otherwise brown-haired head. I’m fine to stop assessing my diet if my jeans start to feel a little tight. I’m sick of feeling that I should work out, not because it’s good for me, but because it will keep me looking like I’m 25. Perennially.




What I’m most weary of is the fact that I’ve allowed other people and institutions (mainly the advertising industry), to make me believe that something — no, lots of things, are wrong with me. Despite my instruction in feminist theory in college and my time allowing Scripture to help me see that I “fearfully and wonderfully made,” I have allowed myself to be victimized by an industry that has wreaked havoc on women’s bodies and psyches for decades, if not centuries. Scholarly critique and prayer have not immunized me from its toxic lies, presented in mirage-filled magazines and carefully-crafted million-dollar TV ad campaigns.




What’s even crazier is that a part of me kind of wants the EasyTones. Having them might eliminate the need to work out as much. But buying them would surely be another act of self-hatred, a clear message to my body (and myself) that I am not good enough.




So, instead today I choose to believe what is penned so beautifully in Psalm 139: that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. As is.

Shopping for Shoes (Men)

(Note: This picture does not do these shoes justice.)

I went shopping for shoes this weekend.


My shopping trip should have been simple. I knew exactly what I wanted: a pair of brown strappy heels perfect for summer days in the office. 


As the weekend approached and the various commercials advertising great deals aired, I thought that I was sure to find what I was looking for.


On Friday, I went to five stores near my house, but found nothing.  Not a problem, I thought. I still had time.


On Sunday, I checked Nine West, Aldo, and six more stores and found a few pairs that I liked.  I spotted a pair of Mary Jane flats that were super cute, even though they didn't have straps and weren't heels.  But, the store didn't have them in my size.  Then, I spotted a pair of brown pumps. They were open toed, very lovely, but had no straps. Plus, they were a little more businessy than what I had wanted.  Should I buy them, I wondered.  I decided to.  They were cute, on sale, and I could return them.  I knew that I could probably find a pair that I liked better somewhere else, but I wanted to have them as a back-up, just in case, because I was tired of looking.


On Monday, I made my way to Nordstrom's Rack and DSW.  I told myself that if I didn't find a pair at either one of these stores, then I would just keep the shoes I had found at Aldo.  The Rack, with tons of cool, chic shoes, was a feast for my feet.  It had flats and heels in every color and size.  (Gladiator shoes and flip flops were in particular abundance on this day.)  Then I spotted the most gorgeous pair of two-toned brown strappy heels. The price: two times what I had budgeted to spend on shoes.  I tried them on, just to see how they felt, and they felt like silk, and for a split second, I almost felt as if I were Cinderella.  The shoes felt like they belonged on my feet.  They looked great and felt amazing.  I walked around the store wearing them, imagining what it would be like to own them, even though I knew that I couldn't afford them. So, after a few moments of convincing myself that it was silly and emotionally turtuous to prance around the store in shoes I knew that I wasn't going to buy, I took them off.


Headed for the exit, I spotted a pair of brown flats, with straps. They were cute, comfy, and well within my price range. I liked them. My mom liked them.  I was going to buy them.  But then, I envisioned myself wearing them, and I was bored.  They were boring. They had no pop, no pizzaz.  So, I left the store, frustrated.  Nordstrom's had hundreds of pairs of shoes in my size, and I had found nothing.  I got in my car, further upset by the fact that I had paid two dollars to park.  Would I have to deduct that two dollars from my shoe budget?


I drove to DSW (Designer Shoe Warehouse) pseudo-confident that I would find something, "If I don't find anything here," I told my mom, "then there's no hope."  Immediately I headed to the sales rack.  A beautiful pair of brown leather heels waved hello to me.  They had straps and were definitely what I call Bad Mama Jamma Heels. They were just what I was looking for.  And, they were the same price as the back-up shoes I had purchased at Aldo.


I put them on, and checked out my feet in the mirror.  They looked really good.  I felt like a model in a magazine.  I decided to wear them while I shopped, to see how they would feel on my feet after an extended period of time.


As I walked, I noticed that the shoes didn't offer much support. In fact, they felt kind of loose, even though they were my size, an 8 1/2.  I told myself that I would just have to make sure that I was careful when I walked, relying on myself, rather than my shoes, for support.


"Do these shoes look big?" I asked my mom. "Yeah, they're kind of bulging,"she said.


"Really? You think so?"  I didn't want to hear the truth--that my perfect pair of shoes wasn't perfect-- that I had been looking for three days and had gone to more than fifteen stores for this let down.  Neither did I want to acknowledge the fact that my feet were really starting to hurt. 


So, I took the shoes off, and put them back on the rack. I tried to convince myself that I would find another pair that I liked, but as I searched the racks, I found nothing.  I decided to check the section of size 8 shoes, though, before I left.  Maybe I could find a shoe there that fit me; sometimes shoes ran a little small or big.  Then, I came across the same pair of brown leather shoes, in a size 8. I grabbed them, just to see if they fit.


They did. There was no bulging, and I felt fully supported.  They still hurt, but what four inch heels don't?


I put them back in the box and walked them to the register. I bought them.  Once home, I took them out of the box, just to admire them.  Now, I'm just figuring out the best outfit to debut them with.


As I was shopping, I couldn't help but compare shopping to dating.


I feel like I know what I want, what works well for my personality and lifestyle, and what doesn't.  I'm in my thirties, now.


Finding what I want, however, isn't always so easy.  The search is filled with promising starts, dead ends, frustration, fatigue, and hope interspersed between.  


Sometimes I feel tempted to settle for a pair that I like, versus waiting for pair that I love, or maybe even adore.  


And then there's still the issue of longevity.  Will I even like my pair of brown leather strappy shoes next season or next year?  Will they fit my feet five, ten years from now?  Will I want them to?


I'm learning that in shopping, patience (coupled with selectivity), is everything.

Meeting Faith: The Forest Journals of a Black Buddhist Nun

Hungry for a good read? Meeting Faith is two hundred eighty-one pages of deliciousness you don’t want to pass up. I now know why the book won the 2005 PEN Beyond Margins Award for Best Memoir and received an enthusiastic thumbs up from O Magazine. In it, the author does what good writers should: She takes me on a journey, shows me something beautiful, and makes me not want to come back.

Meeting Faith details the period of time in which the author, Faith, on the verge of flunking out of college, takes some “time off” from school. But unlike most students, who travel to Paris or Italy, backpacks in tow, Faith Adiele travels to the Far East—to the remote areas of Thailand. A self-declared sociologist, she jumps head first (and hairless might I add) into a Thai wat seeking to understand Buddhism and women’s roles in the religion. (Are you sensing her ardent commitment?) She exchanges comfort, pleasure, and daily communication for a commitment to refrain from entertainment, touching money, all forms of entertainment, sleeping on soft surfaces, and consuming food at inappropriate times, which is most of the time. Sound fun?

The reader follows Faith as she attempts to live by seemingly impossible rules (You try not killing a single bug while living in a forest!), watching her comical failures and her thrilling successes. Pushed by her teacher, Maechi Roongduan, she progresses, so that what once seemed impossible for Faith’s mind and body becomes customary.

Fusing together journal entries, detailed sociologist’s notes, classic Buddhist texts, and childhood memories, Faith weaves together a tale of her time with a group of Thailand’s maechi (Buddhist nuns) that is educational, yet extremely personal. Faith learns that while studying them, she must examine herself, and in discovering their faith, she must uncover her own as well.

Yes, this book is about faith, but it is just as much about identity—what defines us—what drives us. And whether you are a person of faith or one who is searching, I would definitely recommend meeting Faith because she writes with an honesty that is refreshing and challenging. With bravery and beauty, she bares her being:

“…The surprising decision to ordain and what I learned during my short, short tenure as a nun revised the very premises of my life. I’d been raised to believe in myself, in intellect, in the Western tenets of self and science, and I’d taught myself not to fail. Soon everything I knew and counted on would be stripped away. As it turned out, failure was the first step toward real life.”

Still Standing, Barely

I feel for Carrie Prejean. On national television, in front of millions, she dared to voice her opinion, knowing that it was the voice of the minority. And her opinion probably cost her the Miss USA crown. It was her actions, however, not her voice, that cost her the Miss California crown.

At the Miss USA Pageant she exercised her right to express her opinion.  She did not, however, have the right to appear in concert with various organizations, speaking out against gay marriage. She didn't have the right to take the Miss USA title and use it to lend support to a controversial social cause.

And she certainly didn't have the right to retain her title after photos of her posing topless surfaced in the tabloids. Before she became Miss California, she signed a contract verifying that she hadn't ever posed nude. The contract also stipulated that she would make appearances on behalf of the Miss Universe Organization, and that she could not use the title to advance any causes / organizations not approved of by that organization.

Donald Trump, feeling pressured from people within and outside of the Miss Universe Organization, graciously allowed Carrie to keep her title, despite the photos. However, once she became a spokesperson for anti-gay marriage organizations, she was in violation of her contract, once again.

What Carrie Prejean failed to understand is that as a titleholder, you relinquish your right to act as an independent entity. Yes, as an American you have the right to free speech, but as a titleholder, your words are censored, because you don't represent yourself.  Yes, you have the right to advocate for various causes, but those causes must be approved of by the pageant. You are their representative and are technically employed by them.

Carrie Prejean crossed the line of what was acceptable behavior for a titleholder, and she lost her crown as a result. Was she targeted because of her unpopular opinion? Maybe. Was the Miss Universe Organization within its rights to fire her? Absolutely.

Just this last week, news reports verified the existence of a sex tape that Carrie made as a teenager, as a present to her boyfriend. This third "breach" of contract is perhaps the final confirmation that Donald Trump made the best decision when he decided to fire Carrie after all. The job of a titleholder, at any level, is to be a role model. All of Carrie Prejean's actions have made me question her ability to be that.