Caught Between Love and A Hard Place

Part One

The pattering of four small feet running across her hardwood floors woke her from her much needed sleep and it took everything for her not to yank the covers from her fatigued body, march out into the hallway where her twins were playing and yell at the stop of her lungs, stop fucking running in the house! I’m trying to sleep! Instead, she lay in her wooden canopy bed, snuggled deeper into her imprinted body position on her therapeutic mattress and took a deep breath, trying to forget the huge fight she and her husband had the night before. The image of him slapping her was on repeat in her mind; she still felt the sting from his large hand. Staring at his side of the bed, it was empty and cold; she wondered where he was.


Jazmine is 5’5, petite with the body of an athlete. Her almond shaped, hazel eyes resembled those of a cat though uniquely beautiful; she is insecure about them. She grew up with kids calling her cat girl and she developed a complex. It wasn’t until she got older that she started to appreciate her uniqueness, but something about her eyes still bore the insecurity of being different. She wore a short, funky haircut and was very well put together: manicured nails and toes, perfect post braces teeth and flawless caramel skin, thanks to her expensive Park Avenue dermatologist. At 33 years old, she is the mother of four year old twin boys, Diezel and Demi, an editor for the high fashion magazine, Style, and married to Dion Devereux, a tall, attractive, debonair sports agent of African American and French descent.


They live in the Forte Green section of Brooklyn in a five story Brownstone resembling that of the Huxtables. They’re financially stable as a couple, but also independent of each other’s money. They used to take trips out of the country twice a year, but that has stopped since they have been so engulfed with the kids and Dion has landed some major clients, which forces him to work long days and late hours. From the outside, it appears that Jazmine is living the American dream, but inside she knows the truth; she has been lonely and unhappy in her marriage, feeling neglected for the last year and a half. Lying in her bed, now staring at the ceiling, listening to her children run, laugh and play through the house, she has a flash back to the night before; her husband yelling an inch from her face, “Who the fuck is Preston Harris?!”

She was so taken aback by that name coming out of her husband’s mouth. That name, Preston Harris, she had managed to keep her little secret for a year until last night. How did he ever get a hold of his name? She thought. And Jazmine knew that if her husband ever came in contact with Preston he’d probably kill him. You see, even though Dion had been distracted from his duties as being an attentive husband, one thing Jazmine couldn’t deny was that he was a family man and she and her children came first above anything and anyone. He had suffered the loss of his father when he was a teenager and his mother, who struggled as an only parent after the death of her husband, continued to instill the lesson of structure, the value of family and being a good provider for whatever woman he would eventually marry. This was a lesson that his father had been teaching him by way of example. Dion prided himself on being able to afford his family with the best things in life and he was determined to teach his boys how to be men. But in a moment’s time, the life he helped to create was shattered and appeared to be all smoke and mirrors with one phone call, him being on the receiving end of it...

10 Things I Love About Summer Time In New York

10) The heat. Although sweltering and unbearable at times, it brings out the sexiness and fun in people, especially ME!



9) Pedicures! I get pedicures throughout the year, it's ridiculous not to, in my opinion. However, because it's friggin' FREEZING in the winter, and sometimes in Spring, I'm unable to show my toes off the way that I can in the summer! There is nothing like an open toe pump with well pedicured and colorful toes.



8) Street Fashion. People are more willing to approach you to appear on their blog or website to show off your style. In the winter New Yorkers are running with their heads down trying to escape the cold. It's too damn cold to look up! Even if you do see a banging outfit you gotta chalk it up and mumble, "Sorry girl/guy, I'll catch you later." I was featured on silverliningsnewyork.com for street fashion.



7) Outdoor events. There is no First Saturday at the Brooklyn Museum like the ones in the summer. Great networking, cool, stylish people, music and dancing. It's a guaranteed fun time!



6) Colors. There is something about colors that puts me in a happy mood. It's a far cry from the drab browns, blacks and dark colors the winter attracts.







5) Cookouts!



4) SummerStage! I don't know of any other city that has free concerts with A list, major artist and even old school artist who will send you walking down memory lane the way New York does.








It popped off when Queen B hit the stage!



3) After work meditation through Central Park. I work in midtown; to distress from all that I may be going through or all that may be going on around me I walk home, Harlem, 6.5 miles through Central Park. It's my ME time. Sometimes you have to steal away.

2) Movies in the park and Fort Greene, BK. How cute is it to grab a picnic blanket, basket and (in my case)my man to watch a classic in the park under the Brooklyn Bridge? Habana Outpost pops off every summer, especially when they have throwback movie night on the wall while indulging in good food and drinks.










1) Being hand in hand with the man I love and sharing these summer time New York experiences with him. :)

Are White Men More Expressive?

Yesterday I rode the bus in to work, something I like to do in the summertime when the weather is blazin' and New Yorkers are taking a break from their usual rudeness to stop, smile and take their time in getting where they need to go; a vast difference from the hustle and bustle of the herds of people in the winter. Looking out the window on the corner of 79th Street and 5th Avenue, I saw a couple, a white couple, standing at the corner waiting to cross the street. Something about them caught my eye and I was hypnotized by the love they were exuding. Cars whizzed past them and nothing seemed to move the stance they were in; the young girl smiling, talking and looking up at her beau who was standing in front of her holding her hand moving her hair from the front of her face, placing it behind her ear so gently, so lovingly as his facial expression never budged from his interest in what she was saying to him.

I felt like I had stepped onto the set of Nicolas Sparks' The Notebook and Alley and Noah stood before me, this is how into each other they were. As the bus moved down 5th Avenue I couldn't seem to peel my eyes off of them, watching how in love this man was with this woman and had no problem in publicly expressing it. I watched them until I couldn't anymore. I had a thought and even whispered to myself, "Why don't I see more black men doing that with their women?" It seems that there is a certain machismo about black men, they have an image to uphold and getting pink publicly, at least the way this white guy on the Upper East side had with his woman, is breaking the "code of conduct". Don't get me wrong, I know there are brothas who are publicly affectionate, but not the way most women are or would like to be, at least in my opinion. Even in my own relationship, I have a very affectionate man who I know loves me and would move heaven and earth to get to me if I needed him, but I can't recall ever seeing him publicly raw about his love for me. Holding my hand and kissing me, yes; but not gazing into my eyes moving my hair from my face and making me feel like I'm a character out of a Danielle Steel novel, unless we were alone and I catch a rare moment of him willingly being vulnerable.

The other day I was leaving for work from his house and we kissed, as we always do, before I leave. He looked at me in a way that is unexplainable, but it spoke volumes. His eyes said, "I am so in love with you, but he couldn't bring himself to open up and verbalize it to me. I stared back at him and we conversed silently through our body language. He caught me catching him melt in that split second and immediately broke his trace. He crossed his eyes, made a funny face and in a weird overly dramatic tone said, "I'm SO in love with you" and then laughed it off to break his embarrassment for getting caught. Why though? Even in private, he couldn't bring himself to embody Noah's character and express himself freely, the way some may say a woman would. I'm still confused as to why he wouldn't, even in knowing that he loves me and confesses it to me, expresses it to me in his own way, but getting pink is "bitchassness", at least to him, I think.

I'm sure if my man witnessed the love I saw in this couple yesterday he probably would have responded by saying, "He's a bitch" even though he, himself, can relate to the emotion. Why is it that Caucasian men are more in tune with and expressive of their emotions than black men are? A question, after seeing a real life Alley and Noah, I'm now pondering.

Can Dark Girls Wear Bright Lips?

Lipstick, in my opinion, is one of the best accessories to fashion there is. Depending on the color, all brights are my personal favorites, it adds life to your face and ups the anty on your swagger. I'm a medium, brown skinned girl and I've been told, "Trudi, you can get get away with wearing certain colors because of your complexion" or "Girl, those bright colors look good on you, but I'm too dark for that." I never really understood this last comment because I think the darker the skin the feistier and brighter the lip should be. I long for the summer, the only time I can truly tan in the sun and become a couple of shades browner than what I am. The first thing I go reaching for is either my Morange or Impassioned MAC lipsticks to truly show off my tan; but for the sistahs who are naturally the color I'm trying to reach they reject these brights out of fear of looking ridiculous or drawing more attention to a complexion it took them years to accept, although some still haven't.

Today, I met a woman who had skin the color of an Almond Joy candy bar and she was dressed in all white, another one of my favorite combos (all white against dark skin, delicious), who admitted to recently becoming comfortable with wearing bright colored lipstick. Our conversation started off with the price of some vintage pants I was interested in, that she happened to be selling, and it snowballed into fashion, our creative and artistic streaks and makeup. She told me and my girlfriend, who was with me, that she had finally found an amazing hot pink lipstick that took her forever to be comfortable in wearing, "I love this lipstick, it gives me such confidence when I wear it." And she took it out of her bag to reapply. Immediately my girlfriend, who is another chocolate beauty, excitedly inquired about the brand and the color. I could see that in seeing this bright color on another woman who is her same complexion, gave her the audacity to dare and try to do the same thing.

Sharing makeup tips and different shades of lipsticks, I told our "new friend" to go out and try a variety of oranges. I gave her the names, bands and numbers to each tube, practically being the spokes person for each makeup company the lipsticks belonged to. And even in my matter-of-fact and convincing tone, I could tell that she was a little skeptical to be so daring. "An ex-boyfriend told me that colors didn't look good on me so I never wore them." After getting rid of him I guess she proved to herself, with the help of Makeup Forever, that one particular color did look good on her and she now wears it with pride. But what about all the other dark skinned sistahs in this world who have been told the same ignorant things by loved ones or even strangers that their skin is too dark or that a certain shade doesn't look good on them? How much convincing will it take for those, who aren't confident enough to pull off a bold lip, to step out of their comfort zone and enter the world of reds, hot pinks, bright oranges, fuchsia and barbie pinks?

I don't know what the answer to that is, but I do know that black people, as a race, have to do better in building each other up instead of putting each other down about how dark or light we are. We come in a an array of colors, a rainbow coalition of beauty that has the right to dare to be bright!

The Love I Lost Was The Best Thing I Never Had...

Recently I went home, Los Angeles, to visit my family and to celebrate a friend getting married in the upcoming months. Every time I go home I have a different experience and I'm open to whatever comes my way. Sometimes the experiences are good and others times not so good, but this particular visit made me appreciate my life and the man I have in it. I stopped by my second mother's home, who is actually the mother of my high school love, to catch up and spend some quality time with her. We've remained close over the years and she is family, how could I not stop by to see her? Once I walk in her house I'm greeted with hugs and kisses by both her and her granddaughter, the oldest of four.

As I'm holding an adult conversation with this nine year old chocolate beauty, I flashback to the year 2002, when her mother was pregnant with her. There I was, living next door to an ex-boyfriend who I was still very much in love with, but hid it through minimal eye contact and nonchalant behavior. Everyday I'd sneak a glimpse of this young girl waddle past my bedroom window and down the steps, dying inside knowing with every fiber of my body that God had made the biggest mistake of all time, allowing this girl to have his child and not me. Unspeakable thoughts would roam through my head and I regretted taking the apartment right next door to him. I fooled myself into thinking I could handle the situation and it was a great opportunity to finally leave the nest and live on my own, but at the cost of what? My sanity?

I gazed into this little girl's eyes smiling at the way she spoke and how engaged she was in me and our conversation. This little girl, who I didn't even want to be here at one point, was laughing and talking with me, in awe of Trudi, Daddy's high school girlfriend who now lives in New York. She told me about her two sisters and new little brother all made by daddy, but with different mothers. She didn't seem to question why her siblings weren't with her mommy and daddy, all she knew was that she was the oldest of the three and she loved it.

As she went down the list describing the personalities of each little person all I could think was, "THANK. YOU. GOD!" One of those women could have been me and I'd be stuck, here, living a life that isn't to my full potential. There was a picture that sat in the living room of him and his three girls, adorable and loving this picture was, but that life still couldn't be mine. Again, I thought back to 2002 and how angry I was with God. I had a plan with this man, which was to have a Love and Basketball happy ending, but that's kind of hard to do when there are multiple children involved with various women. Thank GOD! Thank God I had sense enough and the courage to leave that life behind, wishful thinking that I accepted wouldn't be my reality and literally moved away and on with my life.

I was trying to put words to the gratitude I felt toward God in leading me into the life I was meant to live and with the person, at this very moment, I am supposed to be living it with. A man who has a stable career, is loving, affectionate, is proud of the women he has, childless and above all is a MAN. Yesterday, as I rode through the streets of New York in my drop top blasting Beyonce's new single, I wholeheartedly sang along with her, thinking of this man who I just knew I was meant to be with. "Thank God you blew it. I think God I dodged a bullet, I'm so over you so baby good lookin' out. I wanted you bad, I'm so through with that cuz honestly you turned out to be the BEST THING I NEVER HAD...And I'm gon' always be the best thing you never had."

We Run This Mutha!

Yesterday I woke up in somewhat of a somber mood. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but I tried my best to shake the feeling. As soon as my feet touched my black hardwood floors I told myself, "Trudi this is going to be a fabulous day!" As the water from the shower came crashing down in my face and the heat hit my body I began to analyze my feelings, "What is it? Why am I in this space first thing this morning?" And I couldn't deny the answer when it immediately came to me, "He should have called by now to apologize..."

As the morning went on and I was sitting in the church pew getting armed in my warrior gear to take on the world and all that could possibly be thrown at me in the week to come, the pastor said something that caught my attention, "You were made to stand out." It immediately brought me back to the somber feeling that had faded just the hour prior and in that moment I declared to myself, "Yes! I was made to stand out!" And standing out from the rest of the women who would have given in by now would not be calling someone who is in the wrong just because I miss them.

The feeling was erased even more when I gyrated and sweat it out in Zumba, but the ultimate distraction and reinforced self control was when my Zumba instructor and I headed over to my girl's house for Mojito Sunday! I don't drink, but I felt like I needed one yesterday. As time passed more women came through to do what we hadn't planned on doing...Relax, relate, release. When I looked around the living room I observed about five conversations taking place between women who needed that connection and the escape from their inner pain and insecurities. It was refreshing to see and comforting to know that I'm not the only one who had to talk myself through the morning into a different, more positive state of mind.


By the time I left my girl's apartment I had made a new friend and plans to hang out with her for the upcoming weekend. As I drove uptown, me, my Zumba instructor and new friend, were claiming that we were strong women who deserved nothing but the best and would settle for nothing less. It's funny how when I woke up yesterday morning I didn't want my day to start and then after my girl time re-boost I didn't want it to end. I told myself that that day would be fabulous and in hindsight I'm seeing how much power there is in the tongue and how necessary it was to kick my shoes off, plop on a couch with a pillow in between my arms and legs and LET LOOSE.

CALVINOGRAPHY presents... EXHIBIT US: Fashion Show Live Window Installation

Through the Fire

"How do you do it? It was just yesterday that you were crying over what he'd done and today you're not giving two shits to the thought of him or this situation. I'm in awe of you." It took a minute for me to process what she had just said and that someone could look at me and my issues and be inspired, moved by the way I'm handling them. What really threw me for a loop was that the woman who spoke is sixteen years my senior and is in "awe" of me?


As we continued talking, her question and statement began to resonate. I would have moments of flashbacks, things I had gone through with him; I'd mentally check out of the conversation and enter some of our darkest places that got me to the mind frame I'm in today. I was pulled back into time, long past and recent when the words that escaped our mouths were so ugly you'd frown at the sight of them, where the anger was so intense you'd black out, turning into the Incredible Hulk, and returning to yourself again at daybreak, when the pain runs so deep that there are no words written in the English dictionary to even express the emotion, where you've compromised YOU for him and you're lost in an abyss of loneliness and confusion.

All of these places I have visited on more than one occasion, hell more than five, and here is a woman telling me she is on awe of me? With each mini earthquake I was rocked, some where 9.5s and others were .1s, but I was moved nonetheless. I remember questioning myself, "when did he become more important than you?" And the scariest part of this conversation was my response, "I don't know." It took me taking a journey to Costa Rica, by myself, endless pages of writing in my journal and midnight hour conversations with God for me to come back to myself. And once I was reacquainted with this women who looked like me, sounded like me, but wasn't the ME that I remembered; she was betta; I knew I was a force to be reckoned with and hell on wheels from that point on.

At that pivotal moment in my life is when I started to own, really own, Trudi and all that embodied my being, good and bad. But even in this epiphany of mine, I still struggle with myself, at times, and with him at others. I haven't mastered how to completely escape those fierce moments when you can turn the house upside down over something that was recklessly said; however, the difference between the other Trudi and this one is my tolerance level. There was something about being burned by fire repeatedly that made me want to stop touching it, in fact, I wanted to avoid it at all cost. You see, he's a firefighter, he is trained and equipped to enter hellish places. Me, I'm armed in my backless sundress and four inch pumps, hot pink lipstick and funky hair, not the ideal or proper gear would you say? Yet, I've managed to come through the fire and I wear my second and third degree burns as a reminder never to forget the road I've traveled in the rediscovery of me. "How do you do it?" She asked. I look at my burns and keep it movin'.

The Home Facial~ Using Mostly Natural Ingredients

The Hottest Pink Yet!

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Love For The First Time

I’ve heard “I love you” plenty of times from men. Some of these I love you(s) were real while others were a tactic to make my panties come down faster than they normally would have. I fell for the okie doke until the responsibility of that phrase had to come into action on their part and they failed me miserably. I soon learned that “I love you” is something that is displayed, acts that are done to make a person feel special and even untouchable when it comes to negativity. And here I was, in a situation with a man where we were spending quality time, learning one another and I was observing his acts, all of which pointed to I love you, but the words never left his mouth. I fantasized about the moment when he would finally tell me he loved me. Would he blurt it out one day? Would it be while we made love? And if so, in my head, it wouldn’t count because you’re liable to say anything while having sex. Would he sneak up behind me and hold me close while I prepared dinner and whisper it in my ear? I had no clue and since I held on to the secret that I loved him we played the waiting game.

I soon became obsessed with knowing if he loved me or not. It had been eight months since we had been exclusive and at that point he made me feel comfortable in knowing that he only wanted me and acted this way as well. It snuck out in his mannerisms and gestures. He’d hold my face with both hands when kissing me. After making love, our bodies would form into a pretzel like position and we’d fall asleep only for me to wake up in that same pose with him. And when I would rush out of his apartment the following morning after having spent the night with him he’d become agitated with me and tell me that I’m “abrupt.” So then why hadn’t he said it?

The obsession only got worse when I actually voiced it. I knew I loved him, but there is something about saying it out loud and to someone that made it real. I confessed my secret to my mother, who had come out to New York to visit me and had just met my man for the first time. She fell in love with his charm and affection toward her and was sold on him almost immediately. After their meeting, mom and I went about our day and she went on and on about how much she liked him and how she couldn’t wait for the three of us to have dinner together. I sat there daydreaming, wondering if I should tell my mother how I felt. I knew what her response would be, but was hoping for her to give me some type of guidance on how I should go about handling this now obsession.

As soon as the words left my mouth, “Mommy, I love him”, she turned her head to me, squinted her eyes and said, “Don’t tell him first.” I was immediately discouraged and decided to do what I had been doing, hold it inside. But then that fateful day had come when I could no longer hold it, when all of my insides where burning to express how I felt and was praying that he felt the same way. It didn’t happen at all the way I had imagined or fantasized and it pissed me off that my reality and my fantasy didn’t collide. I sat on his bed with my back against the wall watching him as he cleaned his room, admiring all of his quirks and manliness. I beckoned for him to come join me on the bed. He stopped what he was doing and climbed on the bed crawling toward me like a mysterious black cat. This was it! I was about to woman up and just tell him. After all, once I told him the obsession would be over and I could get the hell on. These feelings would no longer be a burden to me. As he approached my face, kissing me all over it I pulled away, grabbed his face with both of my hands and took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I wanna tell you something.” He looked inquisitive and replied, “What’s up baby girl?” I froze. It felt like an hour had passed in one minute as his inquisitive look turned into a slight frown. “Uh, uh... I really care about you.” He smiled and gave me a casual, “Baby I care about you too.” As he backed away from me to resume his house duties I shouted, “WAIT, that’s not what I was going to say...” My tone startled him and he slowly crawled back toward me, his head slightly cocked to one side. “I.. I, uh...” I could hear my alter ego, the sassy Trudi coaching me through this, “girl, go on and tell him shit.” “I love you.” There was silence and he just stared at me. As he opened his mouth to respond I imagined what would come out of it. “Baby I love you too, I’ve wanted to tell you all this time, but I was afraid.” Instead, I got, “Awww, thank you babe” and a forehead kiss.

I patted my face with both hands to see if it were still there and watched him recede from the bed. It took me about two weeks to regroup and then I told myself that at least I had gotten the feeling off of my chest and it’s up to him to do what he needed to do with it, but he’d never hear it from me again unless it was in response to him saying it first. Two months had passed and I held my silence and my game face, so well that he questioned if he heard me right and if I even meant what I said. I would play dumb as if those words that it took months to build up the courage to even say meant nothing to me, but I was still dead from the thank you and the forehead kiss. And then it came, the words that I obsessed over him saying to me, never imagining that I’d be the one to say them first. It was 2:00 AM and we were having pillow talk; as we laughed silently talking and looking at each other in the dark; he asked me if I meant what I had told him two months prior. “Honey, I tell you a lot.” I wanted to drag it out of him the way I had to drag it out of myself. “You know what you told me.” I sat there for a moment feigning to be recollecting what he was referring to and then said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Tell me what I said.” Now it was his turn to stutter, stammer and take deep breaths. “You told me you loved me.” I acted very casual, “Oh, oh yeah. I do.” “Then why haven’t you said to me again?” Was this guy serious? I replied, “Well, I could see that you were put on the spot and I don’t need to beat you over the head with it. I told you and that’s it.” He was silent so long that I thought we stopped talking and he was falling asleep. As I turned my head opposite of him I heard, “I love you Trudi." I stopped breathing. WAIT! Did I hear him correctly? He scooted closer to me and continued, “You hear me? I love you Trudi. Marie. Russell.” His tone was confident as if he pondered this for a while and was firm in his decision. As he took me in his arms I exhaled, the front was over and I could be free in my expression. This “I love you” was nothing like I had ever heard from anyone before. It was real and finally, finally it was the link between us.

Baby Got Back

It wasn’t until third grade that I noticed I didn’t look like the other girls in my class. It was pointed out to me one recess as I was playing with my friends. I sang a song about my butt being swung around the playground, a friend said to me, “Trudi, your butt is big enough to be swung around the world.” As the other girls laughed at her quick come back and clever joke, I played it off and laughed as well, but I was dying inside. In my head, I thought we all looked the same, but we didn’t. Throughout the day I was teased about having a big butt and I hated it! Also, it didn’t help that my name rhymed with booty and the annoying song; “Trudi with the big booty” was made up by some asshole that stamped the mark on my insecurity even further.

I remember looking in the full-length mirror in my bedroom, getting a side profile of my body. I stared at my butt and tried to do things that would make it look smaller than it actually was. I’d put both hands on my rear end and push my pelvis forward, hoping that in some way that would flatten my plump behind. And when it was time for me to lay my clothes out for the following day I’d try to pick things that didn’t show my behind as much. Just the day before my butt wasn’t an issue and suddenly over night it was the biggest thing on my body and I wanted to get rid of it, maybe then my personal song sang at school wouldn’t apply.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore; I went in my mother’s room and told her what was said to me at school that day. I questioned why I didn’t look like the other girls; they didn’t have big butts and no one teased them about it. My mother listened intently, took me by my hand and led me to our living room where there was a stereo system with two huge speakers. After having asked her why she brought me to the living room she replied, “I need you to hear something.” “Baby, those girls are jealous because they don’t look like you. You’re a brick house baby!” A brick house? Wasn’t it enough that I wanted this big butt of mine to go away, now I’m being called a house? I could feel the lump in my throat and the tears about to well up in my eyes and then it came. The beat was so loud I almost covered my ears and the base vibrated through the living room. My mother started dancing, her hips swayed from side to side and her arms followed to the same rhythm. She moved in a way that made her butt pop out emulating the dancers in some of my favorite videos. Suddenly there was a loud whistle and I looked out of the window to my left to see if it were coming from outside, but it was the music. As mommy moved to her own beat, letting the music take over her body, she faced me smiling and the chorus started, “She’s a brick hooooouse. She’s mighty, mighty just lettin’ it all hang out.” I was relieved to know that a brick house wasn’t a bad thing, but what was it exactly? Mommy sang each line directly to me and she believed it so much that I started to believe it. She sang to me about a woman who is lusted after because of her body. And when I really started to pay attention to the words in this sing I didn’t understand everything, but what I did understand was that the men singing about this “brick house” woman, were losing their minds over her and I suddenly wanted to be like her. The Commodores described this woman as being stacked, a stallion who not only had the body, but the confidence to go along with it. I asked mommy if the woman in the song had a big butt like me and she said, “YES BABY! Bigger.” Well that was all I needed to hear because somewhere there was a woman who had a song made about her and she had a big butt like me!

The next day at school recess came and I waited for the little boys to tease me about my behind and like clock work they came. I stopped jumping rope with my friends, put my hand on my hip, looked them directly in the face, smiled, dusted my shoulder off the way mommy taught me the night before and said, “I may be Trudi with the big booty, but I’m a brick house too.” My friends laughed and cheered me on, “Oooooooooo, get um Trudi!” As I looked at the friend who exposed what I thought was my flaw just the day before, I replied to her cheering, “That was for you too.”

When I Was Sixteen...

I stood at the front of the Contempo Casuals clothing store, where I worked, feigning eagerness with each customer who walked in; I greeted them with a wide grin and a cheerful “Hello!” Once eye contact was made and they greeted me back, walking past me, I rolled my eyes up in annoyance and sighed in exhaustion, waiting for it to be 5:00 PM so I could be free from these people who asked nonstop questions and from standing for six hours straight. I continuously checked the pager that rested on my hip, counting down my departure, excited and nervous about my after work plans; I was about to make the scariest decision of my life at sixteen, getting a tattoo and concealing it from my mother.

Finally, Evan appeared through the holiday crowd of shoppers and entered my store, signifying that it was 5:00 PM. Evan was an attractive boy, 6 foot 3 inches tall, slender, light skinned complexion, green eyes and had the most perfect, post braces, teeth I had ever seen. He was my elementary school boyfriend, turned best friend, and he was at my job to pick me up and take me to get my first tattoo. Since I was under age, I needed someone who was eighteen years or older to accompany me and who better than Evan? The cool guy, who was eighteen, had his license, a car and had just gotten his first tattoo the weekend prior.

Having already decided on what I wanted, there I was, sitting backward in the tattoo chair with Evan directly in front of me. The tattoo man, a overweight Hispanic guy who wore a long beard, a bandana and was covered in tattoos from his neck down to his hands, prepared the ointment, alcohol and needle. As I sat there fully aware of the fact that if my mother found out that I had gotten a tattoo without her permission she’d kill me, I brushed off my nervousness and lived in the moment. The second I heard the buzzing noise of the needle my eyes widened and I looked over at Evan. He grabbed both of my hands and said, “No turning back now Miss Trudi.” I shut my eyes tight as if I were awaiting the plunge of that first rollercoaster drop, and heard Mr. Tattoo Man say, “Honey, be very still, if not, I’ll mess this up and you don’t want that do you?” Shaking my head no with my eyes still shut, I squeezed Evan’s hands for dear life as I felt the first stings of the needle to my lower back. The further along in the tattoo I had gotten, the more I pictured my mother’s face when she would discover what I had done. I mean, how long could I really hide this from her? I didn’t know, but I learned that I succeeded at covering my permanent mark for seven months until that fateful day when she finally saw my tattoo. I was so scared, I think I wet my panties and was apprehensive at her request to enter her room. What would she do to me? Would she slap me across my face? Beat me senseless? Yell at me?

She did it all, slapped me, beat me senseless, yelled at me and I took all of it. After all, I suspected this would be her reaction when my little secret was out of the bag, but the worst was being grounded for the entire school year! I almost died when she ripped my phone out of the wall and took my TV out of my room. I missed most of the good school dances that year and it was awful. I begged my mother to just whip me again, with a whipping it’d be over in five minutes tops, but this punishment lasted what felt like a life time.

Retreating to my room every afternoon after school and sneaking on the phone until my mom got off of work seemed as if my high school social life had ended. When would this hell be over? It came to an end the summer of me entering my senior year; I had certainly learned my lesson and vowed that I wouldn’t do anything that rebellious or senseless again, especially during my last year of high school, with the homecoming game, dance and prom approaching. Looking back at my sixteen year old self my mother had every right to whip my ass and punish me the way she did. Now, as an adult, I’m praying to the heavens above that I don’t have to deal with a smart ass, rebellious teenager, like myself; I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ve learned that pay back is a bitch.

Goodbye to millions of unanswered calls.

Goodbye to wasted energy.

Goodbye to being stressed over how our future will evolve into more than what it is today.

Goodbye to you having complete and total access to my apartment and me only having partial access to yours.

Goodbye to the way I allowed certain people in your family to annoy me like no one else in my life ever has.

Goodbye to my old school.

Goodbye to my old apartment.

Goodbye to my hair.

Goodbye to being confined to a certain way of thinking.

Goodbye to trying to figure you out, I’ve decided that it’s time I figure myself out and then maybe I’ll have a better understanding of you.

Goodbye to giving 150% and getting 90% from you.

Goodbye to putting you before me.

Goodbye to the tears that I’ve shed over you.

Goodbye to the girl who thought she couldn’t make a move without you.

Goodbye to the anger and resentment I’ve carried.

Goodbye to my insecurities.

Goodbye to the old skin I’ve shed and hello to the thick skin I’ve grown in to.

Hello to the returned phone calls you’re now getting.

Hello to positive and renewed energy.

Hello to believing what God has told me about you and if my faith is in him there is no need for me to be worried about our future together.

Hello to keeping some things for myself and rationing out portions of myself to you the way you do with me.

Hello to positioning the people in your family in their rightful place in my life.

Hello to The City University of New York.

Hello to my new apartment, my new space, my new sanctuary.

Hello to my very bold and fly haircut.

Hello to opening my mind and as a result gaining a new perspective.

Hello to careful and thought out moves when it comes to my heart.

Hello to the smiles I’ve given myself with my decision to take me back from you and to the smiles that you have given me now that you understand the value of me in your life.

Hello to the woman who never wants to let you go, but will if I have to.

Hello to clarity, understanding and happiness.

Hello to embracing my flaws, knowing that it’s okay to have them and that I have a lifetime to work on them.

Hello to the new me!

My Subtotal

Number of DOB: 12/16. Number of schools attended: 8. Number of boyfriends in my lifetime: 11. Number of times in love: 2. Number of times cheated on (to my knowledge): 3. Number of times moved: 5. Number of best friends (in my lifetime): 4. Number of times I’ve cried: 4,323. Number of times I’ve disliked someone: 1,125. Number of times I’ve gotten my feelings hurt by a man: 3,440. Number of times I’ve made love: 2,550. Number of times I’ve had quickies: 450. Number of times I’ve gone off on someone: 10,000. Number of minutes I’ve talked on the phone: 90,540. Number of times I’ve been told that I’m loved: 60,999. Number of hairstyles: 75. Number of miles traveled: 14,000. Number of times I’ve been kissed: 11,000. Number of times I’ve heard God speak: 5. Number to my first personal landline: 310 419 1008. Number of times I’ve watched Boomerang: 500. Number I demand to be in my man’s life: 1. Number of dance classes I’ve attended: 800. Number of times I go to the gym a week: 4. Number of walks I’ve taken through NYC: 700. Number of journal books I’ve written: 12. Number of times I’ve laughed: 100,000. Number of times I’ve cheated on a boyfriend: 1. Number of times fallen up the stairs: 12. Number of homes owned: 0. Number of embarrassing moments: 20. Number of times yelled at: 60. Number of mani/pedi(s): 216. Number of failed friendships: 1. Number of cars owned: 2. Number of times I’ve apologized: 70. Number of children I’d like: 2.

God's "No" Was Really "Yes"

Lying on my back in a mildly lit hospital room, tubes hooked up to my chest and an IV stuck in my arm, I stared at the ceiling wondering how I got in this position. Just two weeks prior I lived in Los Angeles, my hometown, where I left my entire family and friends behind and here I was in Brooklyn, New York, alone, in a hospital bed after being admitted into the ER from a tragic and life threatening asthma attack.


I moved to New York after being led here and I don’t mean following someone, but rather following my faith and the whisper of God. Picking up and moving across the country alone was by far one of the scariest and emotional decisions I have ever made in my life. But at the age of 21 I stepped out on my faith and believed what God told me, “I need you to move to New York because there are people I need you to touch and your husband is there.” With tears in my eyes and a mother who was about to give up her only child to a jungle that could have swallowed me whole, I moved out of my apartment, gave up my car and lifestyle because God told me that this is a duty he needed for me to do. All the while I’m questioning him, even up to the moment I boarded the plane, “God are you sure? I gave up everything. Now, if this really isn’t you, I will turn around right now, I don’t care that I’ve paid for a plane ticket and gave up everything. STOP ME if this is not your will.” There was no sign from the heavens, no bumps in the road that would indicate that this move wasn’t for me, only silence, smooth sailings in the transition from the month it took me to move out of my apartment and board the gates of LAX to the moment I placed my feet on New York soil. Convinced that the next chapter in my life was New York, I exhaled and believed that God wouldn’t bring me this far to leave me.


But here I was clad in a hospital robe, a wrist band that read my name and the hospital department and the invasion of tubes running through my body, monitoring my lungs and heart to make sure that I was breathing normally. My mother was the last person I wanted to tell about this tragic mishap, especially since she was so against me moving, but I learned she found out through the family friend I was staying with and she was frantic. The hospital phone rang and there she was, true to form, as the mother she is, crying and praying with me, reassuring me that God was with me and that nothing would happen to me. She asked me something that immediately sent me into a heap of sobs, “Baby, do you want to come home?” Everything in me wanted to scream, “YES, YES! I WANT TO COME HOME!” But then I thought about all that I had given up and that if I were to come home my faith in God would be shattered because it would mean that I didn’t trust him, I hadn’t trusted him and I had no intentions of trusting him. I regained my composure and answered, “No mommy, I don’t want to come home.” She sighed heavily, searching for words, and when she couldn’t find them, prayer replaced her stammering.


After I hung up with my mother, I fell back into my initial position, head back, lying still, staring at the ceiling with tears in my eyes. I broke the silence with a very matter-of-fact tone. “I ASKED you. I asked you to give a sign if this wasn’t for me. I asked you to stop me if this wasn’t your will and look at what you let happen to me! I am 3,000 miles away from everything and everyone I love and no one is here for me! Why would you do this? Why would you set me up like this?” The more I ranted the more I cried and my voice picked up to a slight yell. I didn’t care if anyone heard me; I had a gripe with God and I needed him to answer me NOW, immediately. I didn’t need the silence he’d given me before, which in my head, indicated his Okaying me to board that plane and come to New York. I needed to hear him, just as I had heard him so clearly when he told me why I had to move here. So I asked him again, flat out, “You brought me here for this!?” There was silence and then he responded, “Yes.” I was waiting for more to be said, but all I got was a single word, one syllable, “Yes.”


That was eight years ago. And here I am living, working, studying, loving and having met true friends in New York. Everything I heard from him before I moved here has come to pass, with the exception of my husband; and everything I gave up has been replaced ten times over. The man I’m with now, God said, “That’s him.” And there are times when I feel like that angry 21 year old lying in that hospital bed, questioning his motives and why I have to endure some of the things I do in this relationship. And in my rageaholic moments, where I have the audacity to question him after all he has done for me, “Are you sure about this? YOU said this was him, not me! Are you sure this is my husband?” There is a stillness that comes before his silence and then he replies, yet again, “Yes.”

Gotta Love Fashion!

He left, but he came back

There is a man I know who is missing something, something essential to who he is and who he has become. In those quiet moments when the lights are out, the curtains are drawn and he is so close to me that I can feel his breath against my lips like the faint approach of heat, is when this man speaks to me about the missing piece to his puzzle. Even in darkness I can see his slanted eyes that blink slowly from his deep thoughts, his plump lips that curve into the shape of each word that escapes his mouth and the distant expression on his face that shows the pain he is so adamantly trying to cover.

"Baby, did I tell you I ran into my father again last night?" His memory was fogged from the drinks he downed just to cope with the unexpected meet. He had told me twice in an hour that he saw his father the night before and now, after having slept off the inebriation from the hours prior, he is unclear. Asleep in the middle of the night, I thought I was dreaming until I felt his hand stroke the side of my face in a continuous rhythm. He asks me again until he hears my response, groggy and half spoken, "Yes, baby, you did." Knowing that this was one of those rare moments when he is willing to open up to me about his pain, I sat as still as a paralyzed victim; I was so quiet I had to remind myself to breathe, not wanting to make any sudden moves that would interrupt his thoughts and jerk him back to reality; I waited for him to speak again.

"It was cool, but I don't know, it is what it is..." And what is it exactly? I'd like to know. As I wait in silence for him to continue, I think about his statement and try to figure how I can work my questions in: Is it you being happy at the chance to finally get some answers about how your deceased mother used to be in her teenage years? Is it your wanting him to embrace you like the father you've always wished for him to be? Is it that you're searching for an apology for his absence? Or at the fact that you finally get to ask why he never helped you assemble the toy train he got you one year for Christmas because he left and never came back? What does this statement, "It is what it is," mean? Because I am from the outside looking in and I see it all.

I wanted to come back with a response to "It is what it is." And if it were my time to interject I'd tell him what it truly is: It's you trying to understand why after 28 years he is proud of you, when he didn't have a hand in your upbringing; it's you having mixed emotions about accepting him into your life; it's you coming to terms with him and trying to understand who he is today; it's you realizing that if you don't deal with your pain in a healthy and mature manner it will stunt your growth and the growth of our relationship; it's you trying to figure out you.

The irony of this 35 year old man, who is so angry with his father, still waits for him to come back. The next morning he says to me, "You'll meet him. Well, no, I don't want you to meet him yet. I can see it now, you having a deep conversation with him that will bring you to tears and you'll tell him. You'll tell him that I still cry over him, how I sometimes get angry and don't know how to act, how I want to fight him and how I really want a relationship with him. You'll tell him my secret and I don't want him to know." Pondering the thought of this hypothetical meeting, I smiled to myself and in a hushed tone, so low that only I could hear, I replied, "Don't worry baby, your secret is safe with me."