A Letter to Maya

Dear Ms Angelou,
I hate to bother you while you're up there singin` and swingin'. So I'll keep it brief.
There is a part of me that does not grieve for you. Only because you have lived a life so full, so rich, painful, but triumphant. Your 86 years with us must have been exhausting, and your poor body just needed the rest. It was your time. I can accept that.
There is another part of me that weeps every time you sneak into my head today.  I feel as if I lost a member of my own family. I know that our backgrounds and lives were completely different. I would never compare my caged bird to that of a slave. However, I must say, you did teach me how to make that  canary carry a tune.
Regardless of race, upbringing, religion, you, Ms. Angelou, are a prime example of the fact that we are all the same in a way. We love, we get angry, we laugh, we yell and scream, we make mistakes. We hurt, we cry, and sometimes we get our innocence stolen. I won't elaborate on that, because I'm sure you already know.
I remember the first time I read I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. I was 14, and it was assigned reading (I wasn't expecting much, I was an angst ridden teenager) But I saw something of myself in those pages. I didn't want to give the book back, so I hid it under my mattress. I read it probably 50 times in two weeks.
I guess what I really want to say is thank you. Thank you for being bold, and putting every piece of yourself out there for the world to see. If you hadn't, I seriously doubt that I could have done the same in the past few months. You inspired me to be bold. Secrets will choke you if you don't cough them up, you helped me get that infection out.
You will never truly die, Ms. Angelou. There will always be a little piece of you in my soul, and I'm sure you will exist in the souls of many others.
Long story short, I want to be just like you when I grow up. 
Now, get back out there on the dance floor. I'll see you at the crossroads.
All my love,
Sarah Kirby

Truth

After a long meditation, careful thought, and some input from the voice in the back of my head who's two favorite words are “Fuck it", I've decided to be honest. I've already told my mama, which usually means my daddy knows, and I've told my Gma. So all of the important parties have been informed before this shit hits the Internet.
I stayed cancer free for an entire year. I had a slight scare a couple months back when my estrogen levels were sky high, but I was cool. Then, after another set of blood and tissue samples showed that my white blood cell count was unusually high, further probing was required. Turned out, cancer no longer felt that my cervix was a warm and welcoming environment. So, it decided to hit the bricks and move into my pelvic lymph nodes. I panicked when I heard that. I won't lie, I broke the fuck down, locked myself into a bathroom at the oncolgy center, and did a little damage to my right hand when I punched the wall in frustration.
The only thing I could think was, "It's spreading, which means I'm going to die"
That shit fucked me up. It took me back to times where I had prayed for death, even attempted to hurry it along more than once. How ungrateful can one person be? In some way, I felt that this was my penance. For squandering the gift that had been bestowed upon me. I walked out that day, shaking, sobbing, and resigned to an early death.
Since then, I have had my pelvic lymph nodes removed. A very simple procedure. My post op samples look good, and I'm okay. For now. Do I know for sure that it won't ever come back? No more than I know whether or not I'll get hit by a bus tomorrow.
Here's some facts on truth. You may think that you're sparing someone by hiding it from them, and maybe you are. However, if no one knows the truth, no one will come to your rescue. They'll all think everything is fine, that there's nothing to worry about. I'm trying really hard to get off of that lone wolf status and rejoin the pack. It's not the easiest thing in the world, I still don't really like answering the phone, or telling the truth about what's really going on. I'd still rather text you that I'm doing fine, and then go cry by myself. Twisted? Yeah, slightly. But it's me, like it or not.
So, now that I'm done confessing  what's your truth? You don't have to tell me, just tell someone, anyone.
Much love to anyone who reads this. Some days, you're the only backbone I have. Peace and blessings.

Learn To Walk

If you put all of your fucked up business out on Facebook for everyone to see, expect a response. This shit is killing me. When you post a bunch of shit about your man abusing you and fucking with other broads, people who love you are definitely going to respond with some anger, that's what they're for. Your family has your back and would do anything to help you out and make you feel safe. So the next day when you start posting pictures of you and homeboy taken after you bailed his ass out jail for yet another domestic charge (when you still have visible bruises) don't be surprised when everyone is hating on him. I know first hand it's not easy to just walk away from that kind of situation, I'm also guilty of staying way too long. But at some point, you have to say enough is enough. I guess the 12 years you've thrown away with him, all the trips to the emergency room, the broken bones, the bruises, the times you couldn't even get out of bed to get the kids to school because he hurt you so bad, debt accrued with the bail bondsman, the shame and humiliation , haven't seemed like valid reasons to get the fuck out. Everyone has been backing you up for years. You're family begs you to grab the kids and come home. And what do you do? You change your number, go incommunicado on everyone. Thing is, you're burning your bridges. You can't help someone who won't help themselves. If you continue to live this life, I'm not in it with you. I'm sure that seems harsh, but it's tough love, and I'm not the only one on that team. It's bad enough to see these ridiculous pictures you post and have you go off on me and everyone else about how it's none of our business. That's not even the worst part. The thing that's eating me alive is this sick feeling I get when I think about the future. Sadly, I'm pretty sure the next time I see you in person, you'll either be in a body bag or a fucking casket. If you were ever to call me or show up on my doorstep with your kids and your bags packed, I got you. Come on in we'll figure it out. But instead you just talk out of your neck, you don't need me or anyone else. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for your babies. Because right now, you're son is watching, learning how to treat women. Your daughter is watching, too. You're teaching her that it's acceptable to be treated this way as long as he apologizes and buys you something after you're done cleaning your own blood off the kitchen floor. I hope you read this. I hope it pisses you off to the point where you grow a little bit of backbone. Open your fucking eyes, and then call me when you can see clearly again.

Chafing

I don't know if any of you have been blessed with having your mother and your grandmother alive at the same time, and sharing in your life. If you have, and they're as close to you as my mother and my grandmother are to me, it's great, but God bless you and may the force be with you. It's fantastic, but at the same time, does it not want to make you scream and say "Fuck my life! I need some Gold Bond!“
I can see that you're unclear. Let me swoop you under my wing. Sometimes, a conversation will occur between yourself and either Ma or your Gma (as I so lovingly call them), that you will have to pass on. It will go down like this :
Me: Blah blah blah (doesn't really matter what I say, fill in the blank)
Ma or Gma: Blah blah blah whatever I say will piss her off. (again, fill it in)
But then, magic occurs. Like, real Disney style, pink clouds and glitter, POW, The middle generation. I pass it on, laughter happens. I convey exactly what needed to be said, with no irritation involved. Why? Because sometimes, being the middle generation makes you the medicated powder that prevents chafing. The chafing? It's similar to the feeling that you get when your panties have been rubbing against that spot on your thigh and your no-no. It's raw, and you can't ignore it. There is a strange bond that exists between us. Three generations of women who are highly opinionated, independent, and well.... Slightly bitchy. We can discuss anything. Love, sex, vaginal discharge. Are you disgusted yet?  Good, my work here is done. Gold Bond Forever!
This is dedicated to my Mom and my Grandma, my two best friends. Xoxo, love you too much!

Pretty Bitches Don't Have To Be Polite

Yeah, I said it. I'm a pretty bitch, and I don't have to be polite. Men break their necks looking at me. They open doors for me, buy me things, and in return, I use them and throw them out like yesterdays garbage. I roll with other pretty bitches. We're friends, but not really. We're all horribly insecure, which makes us mean. We talk behind each others backs, steal each others men, look each other straight in the eye and lie our asses off. Because that's what pretty bitches do.
Hit the breaks, man. You know that's some bullshit, right? I'm about to redefine what a pretty bitch is. I'm gonna break it down, Websters Dictionary style
Pretty Bitch: (noun)
A rare creature who embraces her flaws, and views all of them as something that makes her unique instead of ugly. Tends to be independent, intelligent, and confident.
Here's the thing, ladies. Being a pretty bitch doesn't require thin thighs, perfect hair, or a flawless complexion. I weigh a good 220 lbs. I'm excited when I fit into a size 16 without Spanx. I torture my hair into submission, and right now? I have a zit that would make the Grand Canyon insecure. Please understand, none of that shit matters. You wanna be a pretty bitch?  The only requirement is showing up. I'm sure you look in the mirror and notice the eyebrows that need waxing, the roots that are out of control, an ass and thighs that didn't used to have quite so many dimples.... I could go on. Now, flip that shit around. I myself haven't had children yet. Most of you have. So ignore that superficial nonsense. Damn, girl, you didn't just plant some flowers, YOU GREW A HUMAN BEING. And then you pushed something the size of a watermelon out of an opening the size of a lemon. Congratulations, you're a fucking trooper. Even if you are among the childless, like myself, chances are you've pulled yourself through some rough times.  And if you haven't? Come sit next to me.
For me, being a pretty bitch isn't about isn't about looking down my nose at anyone. It's about looking up at those who came before me. There have been a few super confident women in my life who have inspired me to be the best version of myself that I can possibly be. I pray I never let them, or myself down. Head up, chest out. This is how pretty bitches roll.