I'm Too Old to be Bitter

I’m Too Old to be Bitter

Disclaimer: The following, for now, is simply a theory…nothing is set in stone, or gem.

“Maybe it’s time to late the old ways die. Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die. Takes a lot to change and it takes a lot to try. Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.”

Now, more than ever am I applying this chorus of words to my life.

For so long did I believe in the power and the beauty of marriage. For so long did I imagine myself married with three children. And for so long did I believe (so entirely subconsciously) that a relationship and the love that binds it is not whole without marriage.

I’ve watched men and women, far younger than I get engaged and then get married. I’ve watched men and women who’ve been together no more than 9 months get engaged and get married. I’ve allowed myself to feel such envy and deep sadness over every occurrence, every instance of this. Why? Why put myself through the torture and the misery?

Growing up, society and the media has always taught me marriage is a goal and the culmination of a relationship, so much so, that marriage itself has become the focal point, and not love. Which, let’s be real, it (love) should be. Tradition and visions of my own happily married life has trapped me in a translucent bubble that remarkably has lasted 34 years. How many brides have I watched “meet cute” their husbands-to-be in movies, walk down the aisle, dance to a tear-jerking tune? How many people have told me marriage is essential to the health and well-being of any relationship? That marriage is the yardstick a couple must measure their relationship by, and that any couple that truly loves each other gets married--naturally. This is what I have been told. For so so many years.

And so I write commentaries like “My preciousss…” (2005), comparing a girl’s desire for an engagement ring to Gollum’s obsession with the ring that ruled them all, and I state a ring can make a girl feel special, spectacular, a-mazing. And I pose the hypothetical question, “Who wouldn’t want to feel like the most cherished woman in the world?” But in reality, a ring is just a ring; it’s really how you choose to feel about the ring that marks its importance, or lack thereof. And it’s how you choose to feel about marriage that marks its impact on your life, or lack thereof.

I can choose to be sad on some days, feeling like I am missing out on something grand, or, be mad on others and wonder why them, and not me? I can concern myself with everything wonderful I imagined it to be, beautiful wedding and a house with white picket fence included. Or, I can take charge of my life, and decide for myself what really is important.

Yes, I’ve grown up to believe that marriage is the key. That marriage is what any couple should be striving for. And for me, marriage has always been the norm for my family. My parents had an amazing, wonderful marriage and would still be married today if my dad were still alive. I look at my aunties, my older cousins, my uncles...all married, and seemingly happy despite the hiccups. But if I were to grow up in a different world, where everyone I knew either broke up or got divorced--my parents, my grandparents...my other grandparents...if I equated marriage with misery, then, yea, I totally can see why a person would want to avoid marriage at every turn--to not end up like those they looked up to. To be traumatized and not uplifted. A completely different experience.

I’m not one to give up on my dreams but I am willing to let one dream go. I’ve been so hardwired into thinking I need marriage to make me happy, to make my relationship valid. And I know it’s no new philosophy--plenty of people already know they don’t need to be married to be complete. Couples have been together for decades, unmarried.

I’m seeing now it may be a desire but not a need.

It’s going to take some time to completely devote myself to this new notion, and by “new”, I mean, new to me not to time itself. I’m slowly settling in. A part of me doesn’t want to let go, but the bigger part of me fears what I may lose if I keep holding on, if I remain stubborn in my old ways.

Don’t get me wrong. I know I am entitled to my dreams. But just because I am a romantic, it doesn’t mean I can’t be a realist from time to time.

The reality is love does not equal marriage. Marriage most certainly does not guarantee happiness or a prolonged partnership. And perhaps I don’t give the word “boyfriend” or “girlfriend” much credit. While the word “wife” seems so much more entitled, really all it is, is a title.

I’m too old to be bitter. Bitter than my timeline is off schedule. That everyone and their mother is getting married except for me. That I’ve fallen way behind. Aren’t I entitled to...yadda yadda yadda...fill in the blanks.

So...not quite sure what Bradley Cooper was referring to in his version of A Star Is Born but perhaps he was on to something when he sang, “Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die.”

Maybe it’s time to let the old ways die. And live in the bliss of the present.

Just a thought. Don’t discount me just yet.

A Star is Born...We Don't Know How to Rhyme but Damn We Try.

The first time Ally (Lady Gaga) steps out onto that stage with Jack (Bradley Cooper)..it is enough to keep you watching this movie.

But if you’re still not convinced, read on.

There are some a-MAZING songs in this movie. The title of this review is only a line of one of them. Spoiler Alert! Maybe? A little? Not really. But read at your own risk.

I used to write movie reviews. But not very often. Namely because I’m not very good at them. Haha! I am usually too easily pleased and not very critical. Let’s put it that way. But I decided to blog about A Star is Born because…I cannot NOT talk about it. I guess this movie review is more of a commentary than critique. Shrug.

Let me begin by saying I was going to see this movie whether or not IMDB.com gave it glowing reviews. Whether or not RottenTomatoes, which should really be called StickUpItsButt Tomatoes, gave the movie its elitist blessing. If it got 4.5 stars out of 10 on IMDB and 19% on RottenTomatoes, I was still going to make a point to see this thing. I remember coming across the 1954 version with Judy Garland when flipping channels on T.V. and then, seeing the promo for the latest version a week later and for the slightest second wondering, “Could this be a remake of that 1954 movie? Nah. Pure coincidence. Hollywood is lazy and recycles titles all the time.”

Come to find, of course, several days later, A Star is Born starring Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper is not the first, not the second, but the THIRD remake of the film that first entered movie theaters in 1937. Ok. So Hollywood was mindful this time in picking out a title…unoriginal, but mindful.

I wish I had watched all the other versions so my perspective on the film could be that much better, but I haven’t, so bear with me. I’m only working with the 2018 version. BUT if you were to search the sypnosis of all the others you would find “A musician helps a young singer and actress find fame, even as age and alcoholism send his own career into a downward spiral” (IMDB.com) is pretty much synonomous throughout all four.

Ok, enough stalling.

So. I didn’t want to see this movie because Bradley Cooper starred in it, or to see just how good of a singer he could be. For me, he has always been a likeable guy, but my feelings for him as an actor always ran lukewarm. He hasn’t been one of those “Omigod! Bradley Cooper is playing in this movie! YAAAS! I HAVE TO SEE IT!! YAAAS!” He has striking blue eyes and a nice smile. I’ll give him that. Once again…likeable guy.

I was drawn to this movie mainly because of Lady Gaga. (And ok, yes, because of the role Bradley Cooper would play in her character’s life, but that role could have been played by anyone.) Apart from all the rave reviews she received for the film, it didn’t matter. I’d watch the latest A Star is Born regardless. Why? The woman’s a chameleon for crying out loud! You can pick any two of her songs and you wouldn’t for a second think it was the same person singing them. Where her voice is robust and soulful in “A Million Reasons”, it is sweet and youthful in “Paparazzi”. Her voice is amazing. I can’t think of another contemporary artist who could’ve played the role of Ally better.

Beyond her mind-blowing singing capacity, the question “Can she act?” is easily answered. Yes. I’ll admit..when Jack (Bradley Cooper) and Ally (Lady Gaga) exchange lines for the first time on screen, I couldn’t tell if the awkwardness between the two was bad acting on Gaga’s part or intended lack of social grace upon Ally (Gaga) meeting a superstar (Cooper), but as the movie progressed, Lady Gaga slipped into her role as the unjaded fledgling of a talented songstress nicely. I didn’t question her acting ability any further.

The dynamic between the duo worked quite nicely. Yes, Gaga is no stranger to show business nor putting on acts, after all, every concert she holds, she is “performing”, but still, she is new to the acting scene. Her acting journey throughout this movie almost ran parallel to her character’s tiptoeing into the limelight in the first several scenes. Bradley Cooper had to guide Gaga’s wide-eyed character through the fame and fire (while trying to ward off his own demons) after he initially pulls her into the spotlight, inviting her to sing on stage with him. Gaga’s singing voice holds strong and confident but her character’s ego never balloons up, which I think adds to Ally’s charm. She doesn’t lose herself throughout the duration of the film, and as Jack was her mentor in the beginning stages, she finds herself taking care of him in that “downward spiral” IMDB.com mentioned. I almost felt the way in which Ally remains that wide-eyed girl at the end of the film in spite of all the fame mirrors Lady Gaga’s emergence into the world of acting. Timid at first, but she smashed it.

And Cooper loves Gaga’s character in such a tender, enviable way you can’t not feel your heart flutter more than once. The way he runs his finger down the line of her nose as they sit side by side at a bar, rubs his thumb along the red leather of her left boot as she rides behind him on the back of his motorcycle. And most simply, how he looks at her, his blue eyes shining.

So yes, this is a love story. But it is also a story about finding your voice (sorry, that was a cliche, wasn’t it?), finding happiness, and finding yourself.

I promise you, there will be at least an inch of you moved, if not your entire self.

I have to say, this movie made my opinion of Bradley Cooper go from lukewarm to heartwarming. If his main role in this film was to love "Ally" with every inch of his being, that most certainly came across in the movie. Well done, Cooper! I guess you're loveable just as much as you love...your co-star's character. I think I just might watch your next movie.

Anyway, I’ll wrap this up with one of my favorite lines from one of the songs in the movie:

“I’m falling in all the good times I find myself longing for change, and in the bad times I fear myself.” If that single line doesn’t give a little insight into the film, I don’t know what will.

Wakanda! We are more than who we allow ourselves to see.

Because of Wakanda, I see that black IS beautiful.

Someone once told me that, basically, if it weren’t for his ancestors, blacks wouldn’t have been brought to such an affluent nation. Slightly insinuating slave traders did blacks a favor by bringing them to the New World. That we were rescued from the dessicated deserts of Africa, lands where people act as water canals and wagons. How else would blacks get to enjoy the prosperities and opportunities such a world as the New World had to offer? Never mind the fact that blacks had to endure the brunt and degradation of slavery for hundreds of years before it was finally abolished in 1863. (Hundreds of years after their predecessors were stolen from their homeland, forced into bondage, beaten to pulps like the savages their “owners” thought they were). Never mind that blacks weren’t given the vote until 1965, and were BANNED from marrying whites until the anti-miscegenation laws were declared unconstitutional 2 years later...not until 1967. 

Yes, you could tell me in so many ways why I should be grateful that my ancestors were shackled, forced onto ships, and then taken across the Atlantic to a faraway land where I would have no civil liberties even decades after such laws aforementioned were passed. I get the part about “America, the beautiful”. The land of the free. The land of opportunity. The land where any man can become king.

But while so many doors are opened for so many people, an equal amount if not more are shut in the faces of so many others. /Opportunity.\ Hard-working people getting forced out of a place they called home for decades because their last names don’t belong on some big racist man with an even bigger mouth’s roster./ Freedom?\ Bigotry, discrimination, far from equal rights. What is beautiful about that?

Maybe that’s why when I watched Black Panther for the first time (and only time as of yet), in my life, I really truly realized Black IS Beautiful. At 33 years of life, I believed it. I saw it. And black culture? As wonderful as the bright, vibrant Wakandan blankets that filled the silver screen as I gazed upon their colors in awe.

It didn’t hurt that the protagonist was a very handsome, well-spoken “Wakandan” man. And who wouldn’t kill for Angela Bassett’s razor sharp bone structure or flawless skin, donning a full head of white hair though she looked like she was still under 50? Or wouldn’t mind having an ounce of Letitia Wright’s creative intelligence and spunk?

These Wakandans lit up the screen with their liveliness. I loved them for their conviction, their loyalty, and most of all, their sense of self. They belonged only to themselves and roamed their land freely. And though the way in which their king was chosen might have seemed archaic, even barbaric to some, it has to be said, each battle was fought fairly, and each opponent given an equal shot. The modern democracies of today hold elections handled by much dirtier hands, men and women running with less pure intentions in their hearts, with little concern for the values and ideologies this supposed nation was built on. But I’m not here to talk about the orange man.

Let’s cut back to the Wakandans. Yes. They lived in a prosperous world, full of futuristic gadgets, highly advanced technologies; lands outlying the urban crawl were breathtakingly verdant with natural rocks reaching far above, piercing the blue air. It was wonderful.

And in a world where a young black person might be constantly told they are stupid or savage-like or ugly, Black Panther boldly says, you are intelligent, clever, regal, and beautiful. Our strengths go beyond the basketball and football fields. We can earn scholarships based on academic achievement and not how well we can sink a ball into an open circle. 

If Wakanda existed today, it would be an untapped mountain of potential. As the Wakandas so delicately displayed, gently harvesting their gleaming, violet crops of Vibranium.

What would our ancestors have achieved if our world was not invaded by foreign beings? How many brilliant minds were raped of brilliance and sent to suffer like dogs on a foreign continent? Forced to believe they were nothing more than a piece of vermin to work the fields, get whipped to the verge of death, have their spirits smashed into the dirt along with their faces?

If you are groomed to believe you are special, that your life means something, that it means as much as any other man’s, and that the world is a place worth your existence, you would stand strong with your head held high and value righteousness over ego.

If you are groomed to believe you are worthless, that your life means nothing, and the only way to alter your status is to lie and cheat and steal, you will walk with a hunched over back, a broken soul, and a mean spirit that very well may leave you in the spot you began. 

Sometimes I wonder if the person who told me his ancestors did my people a favor by bringing them here really believed that as his bottom line. Broken spirits and bruised bones (not to mention the deaths of those that did not survive the voyage over) seemed a high price to pay for a freedom we still struggle to obtain today. Because scores are still not settled, and tragedies happen constantly. Black lives are lost while white men walk. Yes, many of us enjoy our lives here. But I almost don’t want to shake the hand of the man that beat me. Would you? (And I don’t mean the modern.man..I mean, physically go back in time and shake one of those slave owners' hands. Forget that.)

True. Africa isn’t a lush paradise like the jungles of the Amazon but...I feel the continent lost more than just bodies. It lost what those bodies could do, the souls that lived within them, and the minds that ruled them. Beautiful people, strong in body, mind and in spirit. Language. Culture shown through clothing and rituals. Grand landscapes. This is what Wakanda has shown me. It is fictional and still...it has taught me there is more to me than I think there is. And that black is far more beautiful than people allow themselves to see.

Wakanda!

This Halloween, I will not waver in fear. 9.26.17

I’m taking it back. I’m taking it back because you stole it away from me for far too long now. How many years has it been? My heart has had its rest now, my brain its retreat. You were once fun, and spooky, mysterious and unpredictable. I welcomed your terror with open arms even though my fear wanted me to gouge out my own eyes, but wasn’t that the point of it? The fun of it? Remaining tied with romantic comedies as my favorite genre. Strange, huh? I know.

So I’m taking it back. I refuse to become a lifeless Frankenstein before electricity was charged into me. I am ready to take on my original form. And I say original, so as not to confuse the “now” me with a “new” me. Because I am the person I was before. Before the horror seduced me.

Now, this post might confuse thee. There are two terrors of which I speak. One is real, made me feel like a freak. The other a game, a hoax, just for kicks, and I am all about getting lost in that mix.

You see each year since 2012, Halloween would come, and with it, hell. Ceaseless chatter, Endless whispers, the taunts…the ghosts in the night, all were far crueler and darker than any headless horseman or witch could conjure. And I couldn’t hide my madness with a costume it took me 2 hours to create. A costume it’d take any other person 10 minutes. And I forced myself from my house, and shoved myself behind the wheel. I dashed towards the party 20 minutes away despite the fear I did feel.

Nasty whispers were crawling into my ear as I drove. Other voices telling me to turn back. I knew I wouldn’t like it. I knew it would be hell. I knew what awaited me. But I went anyway. I don’t know why but I did. And I stormed into the party, acting like I owned the place. Surprised my boyfriend Richard was that I made an appearance. “Go back home,” came a voice’s interference. But I stayed. I suffered. In silence.

And I remember the room spinning around me. I remember the people talking. I remember looking from each mask to mask, trying to make sense of the space around me. What had I gotten myself into. Most importantly, why did they smile in my face, but laugh at me behind my back? Why did they talk about me, hissing in each other’s ears, as if I could not hear them?

And so, I stood close to Richard, as if that would make the voices fade. But the madness continued. I was ready to melt away. Have the floor open up and engulf me. And I was sorry I had come. I knew I should’ve stayed back. Although my home was no better than that hell, at least I knew my pillow well. At least, I could attempt to shut it out.

I remember that Halloween, and I remember the one that followed. I knew a pattern was forming, but I was stubborn, I had something to prove. Again, I went out. Despite all the warning bells in my head. Despite telling Richard I wouldn’t enjoy myself. Maybe I felt if I didn’t, I’d be dead, I don’t know. But the pattern that was beginning to form, was that around every Halloween, I lost my sanity a little. Or, perhaps a lot. Auditory hallucinations. Paranoia. Unwarranted anxiety. A wee bit of mania. It was a pattern. A pattern that just wouldn’t break. A pattern that kept me indoors last Halloween, safe from whatever terrors (imaginary or not) that awaited me outside. And it is a pattern that reminds me that the illness I have has no rhyme nor reason. That, sometimes, it appears, and sometimes it just…disappears out of thin air.

My sanity is so precious. You don’t even know. I hold on to it like, like a fistful of gold, and I can’t afford to let it drop. I can’t afford to spend it. I have to keep it safe, in the treasure chest that is the vault within my mind. Trouble is, some words hold the key to trigger it…tweak the lock open. But so long as I stay grounded, so long as I remind myself of the invaluable yet intangible sanctity of that sanity…I just have to breathe, and when I can’t breathe, when I find myself under, buried deep beneath kilometers of concrete, it is then MY turn to whisper, MY turn to speak, and I say, God, help me. I need your help today. And every day. And I’m scared. And I don’t know where this is going, so I’m trusting in you to take my hand and lead me in the right direction.

Because I am human, and I will err. I will fail, and I will fumble and I will tumble. And I cannot be trusted. Please, Lord, just keep me sane. Don’t let me go down that road again.

And I thank Him for every new day He gives me. Every “now” day. When it is not a “new” me, but rather, the original me. The me that was before illness struck me.You don’t know how precious your sanity, your sensibility, your own credibility with your own self is until you lose it. And I’ve lost it far far too many times.

Having peace of mind is nothing to be taken for granted. And everything that I pray for on a daily basis. Is something I now have. (Knock on wood.) That I pray to God I will continue to have for as long as I can.

Because I’ve seen the darkness. I’ve been trapped in its embrace. And I know the light is so much more majestic, and warm, and comforting. I will not let the darkness win. So many times it had, most times without my consent.

This Halloween, I’m taking the fun back. The joy. The laughter. Forget the Halloweens of the past. I will dress up. I will dance. I will party. Because I have that critical, crucial state of mind now, that is even and true.

Everything else has just been white noise. This year, it will be different. It will. It simply has to be.

She slipped on her fairly new pair of Michael Kors cat-eyed black sunglasses..

She slipped on her fairly new pair of Michael Kors cat-eyed black sunglasses, stepping out of the AC-blasted shopping mall and into the hot, smothering sun, ready to take on the world. But then a cruel reminder from her not so distant past blared through the exterior speakers, and the young woman was instantly reminded of the agony and the terror that had followed her around like a serpent slithers after its prey oh so many years ago. And she found herself helpless once again--her mind a veteran victim, a house of hissing horrors, a chamber of memories that would never die.

Why, at this moment, did the song choose to reveal itself? As if eleven years of suffering wasn't enough. As if every food she had ever tasted back at the institution, every tune she had ever heard, every sense that'd been corrupted, malformed over time, hadn't turned against her once she'd been released from those prison walls.

Now, she must carry them with her every day, with every step she takes. And they will strive to haunt her in every way. And whether or not she shouts that's she free, it's that damned song that will play on repeat. And how she responds, will define its "defeat".

Who will be the first to retreat?

The demon says, "No. Not me."

A young woman slips on her fairly new pair of Michael Kors cat-eyed black sunglasses, placing her palm on the handle of the front door to her apartment. She glances out the window, her grip on the doorknob tightening. A whisper brushes past her shoulder and into her ear. She lets go of the doorknob and backs away.

She swallows hard, sitting down on the ground. Another day trapped. Another day black. Another day spent with the sole company of a year's worth of tainted memories, spinning on loop.

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8.28.17. 5:43 pm.