No And So What: My Rant against the stereotypical Black woman

No and So What?
No! I’m not 5’4’’, with light eyes, and “thick in the thighs”. I’ve never been on Maury screaming, “You know you that’s baby’s daddy! Look at his ears, look at your ears! Look at ya’lls noses!” I wasn’t anyone’s high school dropout by the 11th grade or baby’s mama by the time I reached 16. My name isn’t Shaniqua, or Diamond or Princess or Chardonnay or something equally as horrible with a sha- or la- preceding it. And no, I don’t know Pookie and Boo Boo and them.
No! I don’t know Jay-Z and can’t get you tickets to his next concert. I don’t live in the projects. I don’t know how to ‘get lite’, and yes, I’m sick and tired of hearing “What it look like?” just because you just found out I’m from Brooklyn. What do I look like?
No! I don’t have a 16’’ weave flowing down my back and a big, fat ass (pardon my French). No, my boyfriend isn’t a drug dealer, has on a $500 pair of shoes, but doesn’t know the difference between there and there. I can’t “drop it like it’s hot, but I can slap you like it’s lukewarm! And no, I don’t think Obama is the answer to every black person’s problems.
No! Hell no, in fact! My mother and father never were, and I repeat, never were, or are still on crack, heroin, PCP, MSG, weed, or any other illegal drug you can think of! I was never sold for $20 so someone in my family could high. No, I don’t smoke weed and enjoy getting “bent” (drunk). Damn five and ten dollar books; have people all confused! No, I don’t know any crackheads that can get you a 35’’ flat screen television for $20.
No! I don’t look for tricks on Atlantic Ave. or blame the white man for everything that goes wrong when I’m looking for a job. No, I don’t have the “hook-up” and can get you any $1000+ designer bag for $40 on Canal Street. I’m not looking for a handout and no, I don’t live off of welfare or in Section eight housing. No, that wasn’t me you saw on Nostrand and Myrtle last week ganging up on what’s-her-name because I found her number in my man’s phone.
And so what if my hair is done and I just let the Dominican lady wash, set, and wrap it for ten dollars ‘cause I wasn’t goin’ to go on a Thursday-Sunday kick and wind up havin’ to pay damn near twice that amount to get my “wig fixed”? Whew! – That don’t mean I’m ghetto! And so what if I like expensive stuff? Doesn’t everyone crave the finer things in life?
No! I’m not gang-affiliated, I don’t have five kids by three different guys running around, I’m not a “pop”, a “jump off”, or a “trick”, I don’t have a million dollar wardrobe with five dollars worth of brain cells, and no, I’m not going to go straight for the hair in a fight.
Regardless of what you might’ve heard or thought or seen or whatever, I’m none of those things. I may be black, but I’m me. Just, me.

I'm Here Because...

I’m here because this is the place where opportunity has risen for my family. The matriarchs that have come before me, my mother, her mother, and so on, have made this place their home. They’ve settled in a place so different from that of the South, with its torched summers and open spaces, that it’s impossible to ever think of being anywhere else. I live in and love New York.
In this place where I live, the possibilities are endless and the clichés, too. Here is a place that they write novels about, make movies regarding, even put in their songs, because that’s just how great it is. There’s always an opportunity for the adventure of a lifetime waiting at every corner, at every bend you turn. There’s always some new story unfolding, always ready to reach its climax in a way.
I’m here because once upon a time my mother and father, well, my mother, really, decided that it was time for a little brown-eyed child to be born. Nine months down the road, and there I was, embracing this big, bright new world with all ten of my little fingers and toes. I embraced my new mother with her warm, loving arms.
I’m here because this is the place that I was meant to be a part of. In this place I’ve known as home all my life, I have grown and become more and continue to become more than anyone could ever imagine. I’ve taken all that was given to me and it has manifested into the wonder, the magnificence, the awe-inspiring, note-quite-done-yet marvel that is me.

Contrasting Definition

Looking back on my young life, the friends I have always seemed surrounded by have always been like me in some type of way. However, there have always been differences ranging from subtle to obvious when comparing any one of my friends and myself together. And, like most friends, the differences, and not the similarities, have brought us closer together. One such friend I have like this is named Laryssa, and to this very day we are the very best of friends.
We went to junior high school together, Laryssa and I. The one physical aspect that we shared, before even knowing one another, was that we were both, and still are, very tall; always the girls that were tallest in the class. However, where I was tall and slim, Laryssa had gotten a jump start on puberty and had begun sprouting physically, and abundantly. I, on the other hand, remained flat as an ironing board. My hair was short, cut stylishly close to my ears, gleaming and straightened due to the noxious chemicals I had inflicted on my scalp.
My personality was abrasive, almost bordering on being cruel, and there was always a flippant air about me – one that said you won’t get what everyone knows you deserve if you just leave me alone. I never did my assigned homework on time, if at all. I lacked good sleeping habits at home and preferred to sleep in class. My grades were substantial, but I excelled in subjects like Spelling, English, and Health.
Laryssa was almost the complete opposite of me. She had long, wavy hair – hair that we dubbed “good Indian hair”, when I’m sure no one in her family that even she could remember was Indian. The amount of friends she had and extracurricular activities she participated in surpassed mine, which were very few. She had a bubbly and sparkling personality, one that made others like her instantly, and never had a bad word to say about anyone (until she met me, of course).
The differences between me and her were striking. She was a straight A student to my cavalier and negligent air-breather towards schoolwork. I’d be late almost every day; she was probably one of the first ones to show up. I liked to wear sneakers most of the time; she preferred shoes and wore them often. I loved books, particularly science fiction and fantasy
She was the yin to my yang, the two of us, her and me, a pair of shoes that fit perfectly with one another, no matter what color shoestring was there. Despite our differences, we got along like a house on fire. We’d sit at the back of our joint seventh and eighth grade class, (rowdy, know-it-all seventh graders to the right, and us well-deserving eighth graders to the left) and laugh our heads at jokes we’d concocted throughout our Spanish class. Mrs. Stevenson, the laid-back Dominican teacher could never be mad at us though, because our work always got done.
The years and transitions of us graduating and leaving junior high, then high school, and now the start of college have created us into the mysterious and inviting novels that we are. I still maintain my contradictions: my brash yet sometimes childish outlook on life, and all of the happy yet morose in-betweens that go with the territory. Laryssa has changed somewhat, no longer the naïve, happy-go-lucky person she once was due to life’s experiences. However and wherever our lives may take us, whether our differences deplete themselves or expand exponentially, it’s what we’re not that will always draw us closer together.

Closer to God

I wouldn’t say that I’ve felt close to God, but I do remember a time when I re-evaluated my relationship with Him. My late grandmother had pancreatic cancer that quickly took over her whole body. I didn’t see her often, but when I did (like during the holidays and at family gatherings), she seemed to look weaker and weaker, especially when I could vividly remember the times when she would chase my cousins and I around for being bad or bellow out to my family members.
However, things were a lot worse than I was aware of at the time. My grandmother was admitted to the hospital with a tumor that had ravaged her brain and eventually killed her. She died a week before Christmas.
I questioned my relationship with God. At her wake, I kept looking skyward and tearfully asked, “Why her? Why wasn’t I allowed to spend another day with her – to say goodbye?” It hurt so much to know that I could have gone to church every Sunday for all those years – how she could go for all those years, and something like this could happen to her. And not just her, to us, to me, our whole family.
Typically, I’ve found in a lot of people, when things go wrong we tend to blame God for all that He hasn’t done instead of what he has. It’s so easy to be angry for all of the bad things that happen in life and wonder, “If He is so great and forgiving, then why do things like this go on?” For example, murders and such, the slayings or accidents of completely innocent people, or injustice to the wrongfully accused. I found myself doing the same thing when my grandmother died. I didn’t want to believe that she could be taken from us so soon, not when I felt that she had yet to live a longer, loved life. I didn’t want to think that the Almighty God could invoke his terrible power upon us mere earthlings and snatch my grandmother from me.
My thoughts churned and churned, and I’m still hurt, to this very day, that she couldn’t yet again beat her cancer and be among us right now. I now believe in no organized religion, and feel that, regardless of my loss, the belief in any one God who has the power to be and not be, to create and destroy, to give and take away is simply psychological and doesn’t manifest itself. I do, however, feel that there is a higher being somewhere, and that he or she or it has done and will continue to do all that is required of them by their followers. Including me.

Lies, Lies, and More Lies

Not too long ago, I used to be a silly, whimsical child. I was also a child prone to not always listening to my mother when she would tell me to do things. She would tell me to do or not to do something, and like most children; I would do the complete opposite. This would result in my lying about the situation to avoid getting into trouble, and in turn, I would still get in trouble anyway. One such time revolves around a lie I told that could have ended horribly had the truth not come out when it did.
At nine years old, I hardly felt deprived of social interaction with other children my age. Being that I had always been a year younger than a majority of my classmates since the second grade, there was always a need to prove to everyone that I could deal with whatever was thrown my way. I was also one of the taller children in the class, and found it somewhat difficult to make friends that wouldn’t tease me about my height. I did, however, find friendship in a girl named Chaneé (pronounced Sha-nay) Mitchell.
As we sat in the brightly colored fifth grade classroom taught by Ms. Tate, a dark-skinned West-Indian woman with a detectable accent and kind disposition, Chaneé invited me to come to her house after school was over. I agreed, having always envied her long, soft-looking hair, her agreeable personality that most of my classmates seemed to flock to, and how she always wore some type of name-brand clothing whenever we had to wear our own clothing versus the uniform required to be worn by all the students.
As the day wore on, I began to feel more and more uneasy about having agreed to go with her. That morning, my mother had pointedly told me that I was to go to my grandmother’s house when school let out, because my mother was going somewhere and wouldn’t be home to let me in. I hated having to stay at my grandmother’s house, and because my mother told me I had to go, I intently defied her and followed the much shorter Chaneé to her house that afternoon.
She led me past the different colored three-story private houses located closely together, the noisy, but bustling Halsey Street train station, across Broadway, to her house, or rather her apartment located in the recently built complex. The complex consisted of a full stretch of blue two-family homes located on either side of the street with a lot for parking behind the both of them. She took me to where hers was, located in the middle of the block. I followed her up the enclosed, carpeted steps and stepped into a world of childish fun and games.
Before I knew it, 3 P.M. had quickly turned into 4:30, and I knew before even looking at the clock that I was in a boatload of trouble. I hurriedly said my goodbyes and headed for the train station, thinking that my mom would be home by this time and it would be okay to go home. However, as the train noisily rumbled to the Myrtle Ave. /Broadway station, I faltered in my decision, the second time for that day. How much trouble would I be in if I returned home when I was specifically told to go straight to my grandmother’s house?
I got off the train and sat on the six-seater, hard wooden bench provided by MTA for passengers waiting on their trains. Yet again, I did something incredibly stupid – I fell asleep. When I woke up again, it was minutes after five and I was frantic. I got back on the train heading back the way I came, the cogs of my brain working in overdrive, trying to figure out how I would get myself out of the trouble I knew was waiting for me once I arrived at my grandmother’s house.
Amazingly, I came up with what I thought was the perfect lie; a lie so good that no one would doubt me once I revealed it to them. I forced tears from my eyes and knocked on the brown door of the house. My grandmother opened it fitfully and I was immediately accosted into the house and bombarded with questions.
I told them my story: that I was on my way to the mother’s house when a man dressed in black stole my student Metrocard and demanded I give him my name or he was going to kill me. However outrageously unbelievable that story sounds, they (my grandmother, older cousin, and a woman that stayed with the two of them) actually believed me. I was then ordered to go home and was placed into a taxi that would take me to my house. Satisfied that I would be able to tell the same story to my mom and have her believe me also had my stress level at a very low level.
I arrived home to find my mother in a fit of rage I would have never believed had I not been staring at her with my very own eyes. She was very beside herself with worry, and also angry that I had not followed her directions. I related the story to her similarly to the way I related it to my grandmother. She believed me, still reasonably angry, and even went as far to check my private parts to ensure that I had told her the whole story. Ensuring her I did, even as I obviously knew I had not, she continued to go on and on in that compelling voice of hers about paying attention to my surroundings and calling the police, etc.
The next day was when the truth came out. I was allowed to stay home from school that day. Apparently, my mother had called my school and asked my teacher if she had seen me. The teacher, in result, asked the students present that day if they had seen me as well. Chaneé had told my teacher the real story, and naturally, I was busted.
As I watched the rapid emotions, most certainly, realization, flash across my mother’s face that day, I knew and still know now that lying has never done anyone any good, especially when trying to save themselves from a certain fate. As I got a beating and a “chewing out” I’ll never soon forget, lying over the years has taught me a valuable lesson: no matter the lie, however big or small, still has the same negative consequences.

Quote

"Writing and reading is to me synonymous with existing." - Gertrude Stein

I find that this quote, when looked at thoughtfully, is very true. To experience one's life fully is to read and write and explore the world through words and phrases that turn into the sounds that we all hear and are familiar with.

Throughout history, it has been found that earlier civilizations have used pictures and/or words to communicate with one another, making it possible for their civilization to thrive with the usage of such. With that being said, the quote reflects not just one person, but all people, because to do only one or the other isn't really an existence at all.

Collage Essay

My collage is just a small representation of me. It defines and symbolizes everything that is important in my life. It’s a reflection of everything Raven, and everything that is displayed within it is me.
I’m a big fan of Converse. The history of how the shoe came about and its evolution as not just a brand or sneaker, but the representation it gives as a way of life. The All-Star logo I included in my collage stands for the logo located on every Converse product, except for the low-top sneakers and shoes. Converse has become a big part of my life, and with doing so, reflect the casual style and comfort I like to be associated with. I also enjoy Converse because of the numerous colors and variety they offer to everyday clothing.
I’d like to consider myself somewhat of a girly-girl. I like dresses, shoes, and designer handbags, getting my hair and nails done, being pampered in general, and being dainty and cute in the way that girly-girls do. I feel that the shoes and purses/bags one carries reflect their true nature. For example, for those who enjoy comfort choose flats to wear. And, for those like me who like to make an entrance, heels of all kinds and bags with beads, studs, buckles, and the like capture their hearts. These material things don’t define me, but they are a part of me that I hold dear.
Creativity stems not from only the mind, but the heart as well. I can crochet, and I learned this craft as a young teen by first my grandmother, and then by a high school teacher who taught me to perfect my skills. I’m actually quite good at what I do, and I am proud of my accomplishments thus far. There are those who can do a variety of things well, but this is my craft, and something that I excel in to the amazement of some.
The last to be mentioned of my collage is the picture of the Harry Potter series. I absolutely love Harry Potter – from the mystery and magic to the sheer awesomeness of it all. Being able to immerse myself into a fantastic world filled with witches and dragons and house-elves keep me going, o to speak. The series itself keep my mind open to the possibility that my imagination can bloom and thrive if I let it, and that success in writing that I can be proud of can take me far.