I wonder when the DVD will come out.
We're in the middle of packing to move, and it's really emotional.
For me, anyway.
C. couldn't be happier about moving away from here. A lot of the old white neighbors here view him as "The One Who Married The Other One" (actual quote), The Guy Who Comes in Late And Could Possibly Be A Drug Dealer Because He Is Black, Wears Baggy Clothes, Keeps Odd Hours And Drives an SUV (albeit without loud music), and The Guy You Feel Comfortable Asking to Do Things Like Go Into the Dumpster And Get Something You Saw In There You'd Like To Have.
He says he's tired of being looked at funny and having old white women all but shriek in terror at the sight of him.
I can understand that -- I work in a place where I've heard a black man referred to as "that colored fella" and my twists called "Medusa things" and people's mouths gape open every single time I rock a 'fro. I'm no stranger to the discomfort of knowing that some people will either always think you in some way lacking, or a strange exception to the rule.
But even so...I liked it here. I grew up here, in a way. This was my bachelorette pad. I loved and lost and lost again here. I had my first dinner party, my first heart-wrenching breakup. I regained my sensuality and lost it again here. I found and lost jobs and boyfriends. Lost, found, and lost myself.
And when I leave next week, there's a part of me that will be here. My Single Girl self, that idealized self that holds so much possiblity and promise. She was sexy and sometimes beautiful, soemtimes insecure, sexy. She dreamed and teased and wrote and created. She had friends and work and fun.
And now...not so much. I'm married and old and not as attractive, and i'll just end up being a brood mare and someone who says more often than not "No, we can if you want" and "Whatever you want to do, babe."
I didn't think I'd end up this way. I suppose I should be happy. This is what I said I wanted, right?
Packing up the pieces of the life I once led is like writing my own epitaph. If I died tomorrow, and someone had to come and rifle through the boxese, I wonder what they would say, what the pieces of my world would tell them. I wonder if they'd think I would have been worth knowing. Or if I were a show, if I'd be worth watching.
For me, anyway.
C. couldn't be happier about moving away from here. A lot of the old white neighbors here view him as "The One Who Married The Other One" (actual quote), The Guy Who Comes in Late And Could Possibly Be A Drug Dealer Because He Is Black, Wears Baggy Clothes, Keeps Odd Hours And Drives an SUV (albeit without loud music), and The Guy You Feel Comfortable Asking to Do Things Like Go Into the Dumpster And Get Something You Saw In There You'd Like To Have.
He says he's tired of being looked at funny and having old white women all but shriek in terror at the sight of him.
I can understand that -- I work in a place where I've heard a black man referred to as "that colored fella" and my twists called "Medusa things" and people's mouths gape open every single time I rock a 'fro. I'm no stranger to the discomfort of knowing that some people will either always think you in some way lacking, or a strange exception to the rule.
But even so...I liked it here. I grew up here, in a way. This was my bachelorette pad. I loved and lost and lost again here. I had my first dinner party, my first heart-wrenching breakup. I regained my sensuality and lost it again here. I found and lost jobs and boyfriends. Lost, found, and lost myself.
And when I leave next week, there's a part of me that will be here. My Single Girl self, that idealized self that holds so much possiblity and promise. She was sexy and sometimes beautiful, soemtimes insecure, sexy. She dreamed and teased and wrote and created. She had friends and work and fun.
And now...not so much. I'm married and old and not as attractive, and i'll just end up being a brood mare and someone who says more often than not "No, we can if you want" and "Whatever you want to do, babe."
I didn't think I'd end up this way. I suppose I should be happy. This is what I said I wanted, right?
Packing up the pieces of the life I once led is like writing my own epitaph. If I died tomorrow, and someone had to come and rifle through the boxese, I wonder what they would say, what the pieces of my world would tell them. I wonder if they'd think I would have been worth knowing. Or if I were a show, if I'd be worth watching.
posted by Gina at 6:42 AM
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