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.

I'm No Savior

I really want to come clean about why I'm so angry about domestic violence. This shit is dangerous. This has been burning a hole in my soul (not to mention my stomach)  I am neither a victim or a survivor, just a girl who fell in love with the wrong dream once upon a time. Part of me is terrified to write about this. My parents will most likely read this,  and I don't want to cause them pain. The other part of me tells me to get this dirt off my shoulder and take a deep breath of clean air. Because I owe it to other women of my ilk. This is the raw,  brutal truth,  and it's not for the faint of heart.
My ex husband was violent long before we were married. I still remember the first time he hit me. Some stupid argument ended with him backhanding me several times across my face. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in. My eyes were already swollen almost completely shut. The bruises were already forming, as were the petechial hemorrhages in my eyes. I forgave him,  he begged and cried that night. He brought me ice packs and vicodin to help ease the pain that he had caused. I look back on that night, more than a decade ago, and I think to myself   "Why?". There is no answer,  no logical conclusion. Over the next few weeks  he laid off my face. This isn't to say he stopped hitting me, just not my face, Mostly because those black eyes and broken nose caused my boss to tell me to stay home and until they faded. So that put a huge dent in our income.  I was waitressing at a very busy restaurant located on a well traveled highway. I was making damn good money,  but when that money wasn't there,  I was a fucking punching bag.
I've had people who know me now tell me that they can't imagine me not fighting back or allowing it to happen. I didn't start out going down with out a fight. I fought back,  and hard. I've always been a scrapper. However, he was bigger and stronger, and always told me that as an ex Marine, he could kill me with his bare hands. I believed him. I  mean, he obviously had  skills when it came to subduing me. There were so many times when I would come to with him standing over me saying,  "Get the fuck up,  you're still breathing"  At that point in my life,  I really did want to stop breathing. I wanted him to kill me so I wouldn't have to do it myself. There comes a time when you're just fucking tired. You don't have the energy to fight anymore, death starts to sound delicious, just close your eyes and never open them again.
When you're in that spot,  there is no light. No sunshine, no yellow brick road.
The worst part is, just a few  months after he broke something besides my nose, it was just my wrist, I went ahead and married him. It was an excellent wedding, enjoyed by all. I remember just soaking it all up, enjoying the little bit of his good  moods. People always said that we were a beautiful couple. We were,  we looked great in pictures. But what was truly going on was blackout dark.
He waited almost 3 months after the wedding to hurt me again. This time, he choked me until I passed out and then dumped dirty kitty litter all over me. When I got up and tried to go take a shower, he held me down and told me to "marinate in it'.
The next few years consisted of episodes similar to this. I always say that we had different needs. I needed him to get a job and act like a husband, he needed to lay around, drink beer that my two jobs paid for  and beat the shit out of me for sport.
By the time I was 24, he had broken my nose twice,  fractured three of my ribs, broken my left wrist twice, knocked out one of my back molars, and caused a curvature in my upper spine that still won't go away. And the best was still to come.
Eventually,I  could no longer keep us afloat. Always having to move,  never able to pay rent, evictions and repossessions were the name of the game
So we had to move. This time to Missouri, where. he was from. I hated the idea. And I could have stayed in California, if only I could have swallowed my pride, and told mom and dad that I didn't want to go. Unfortunately, I didn't. I went along,  thinking that the train wreck that was our marriage would  magically improve, and I'd be a fucking Disney Princess.
Things looked pretty good for awhile. He was in a great mood, catching up with all of his old friends. I was working (of course) he was actually in some pulling some income doing masonry work. It didn't last long.
Time out.  You may not want to read the rest of this. Turn back now if you're not ready for the gritty, ugly truth. I won't blame you one bit.
July 17th 2006 was the first time he raped me. Some people don't understand how a husband can rape his wife. Married or not,  sex should never be painful, you should never have to beg for him to stop. I  just had to stop for a second, and take a deep breath and remind myself why I'm doing this. Sometimes honesty fucking sucks. So get honest, Sarah. He didn't just rape me, he also sodimized me. Right now, I can't believe I just put that out there, and I am so tempted to delete it. It's humiliating and embarrassing. But fuck, if I don't say it, who will? I know I'm not the only one. And I was raised with the belief that silence cures nothing, it just creates more ugliness. So there it is. It's out there.
For anyone who has ever been in an abusive situation, you know it escalates. He became increasingly more psychotic.  One night, he stabbed me. Right below the left side of my rib cage. He used a K bar, for those of you who don't know, it's an extremely sharp,  double sided blade, meant to be used in close combat. I think he scared himself that night.. The knife went in a good inch and a half, maybe a little more. When he pulled it out, I went to the bathroom, cleaned it,  and used super glue to suture it.
It was at this point, I knew  that I was going to die. I looked into the mirror and was faced with my own mortality. I couldn't figure it out. What the fuck was I doing? This was not how I was raised.
But I still couldn't stand up for myself. I don't know why.
A few days later, I was going to go out with some friends I had met at work. He was from this area, he had been going out with the boys. I wanted a girls night. He said he was OK with it. And seemingly he was. Until I started doing my hair, which was down to the middle of my back at the time. I was curling my hair and he walked in, demanding to know why I thought I needed to get all dolled up,  since I was just going out with the girls. I tried to keep it light, telling him he always shaved before he went out, so why can't I curl my hair. Wrong move.  Checkmate. He grabbed me by the back of my head and slammed my face into the toilet tank. I could barely breathe , I was choking on the blood pouring from my nose and mouth. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was him saying,  "looks like it's nice and hot for you".  I don't really remember what it felt like when he raped me with that curling iron, I was barely conscious. My sickness continued. The next day, I was in the ER due to the nasty side effects that come with that sort of violation , I was actually texting him to ask if he was OK. Because he was so upset with himself, don't you know.
The point of me telling you this is not to scare you, shock you, or make you hate men. I love men, they're slightly retarded at times, but there are a lot of good ones out there. If you're in a situation , and you need help, there are lots of us out there to help you. I don't have all the answers, but I have resources. There are people who will make the safety and well being of you and your children top priority. We're here for you. You don't have to be alone.

What Family Feels Like

Its sad, but there are far too many people in this world who know what its like to fall into the solid but comforting embrace of family. Fortunately, the universe has blessed me, and I know exactly where to turn when I need that sort of warmth.
Growing up, it always seemed like my family (my parents, myself, and my younger brother) were somewhat odd in comparison to other families I knew. For one thing, we were all together, under the same roof. Before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, I am absolutely not criticizing families that are split due to divorce or anything else. I'm just saying that it was somewhat of a rarity.
That wasn't the only difference. Its hard to explain, its more of an essence or an aura that set us apart, rather than a list of black and white reasons. We were always (and still are) a tight unit. Through thick and thin, arguments and resentments, hurt feelings and other nonsense, at the end of the day, we're all Kirbys, and we love each other fiercely.
I'm the oldest Kirby child. Mom and Dad got married when they were 17 and 19, respectively. A little over a year later, I was born. Surprise!  Yep, neither one of my parents are quite 20 years my senior. In a sense we grew up together. I remember a lot of things, there were struggles and strife, no doubt. Mostly though, I remember always feeling safe and secure. Mom and Dad never failed me there.
When I was about 6 1/2, my brother Sam was born. I was perfectly content being an only child, but my parents had the audacity to go ahead with having another child without consulting me. Yes, even at that tender age, I had a bad attitude and a slightly diva-like temperament. I eventually got used to the idea of a sibling, and I must say, when he finally debuted on the scene he was pretty cute and entertaining. For all of you with siblings, you know that shit don't last. We grew into typical siblings. I was the bitchy, bossy loudmouth who always got in trouble, ( still am) while Sam was the quiet conniver. I laugh when I think of all the times I got in trouble because I have no ”inside voice" , and Sam would win, because he knew how to torture me silently. This is not to say that he was the villain, I was definitely meaner than he was capable of.
One of the things that happen when siblings have a large age gap like ours, is that you stop growing up together at a certain point. I became an adult (albeit a poor excuse for one). I moved out at 21, married later that same year. Sam was still in high school. Over the next few years, I lost myself in an ugly relationship, and an even uglier battle with drugs and alcohol. That's a whole different story, so I won't expand on it right now. Sam went off to college, and I moved out of state.  I remember during that time, I missed my family, but mostly Sam. I felt like I was missing a lot of really important stuff. For one thing, the kid was growing up to be a hell of a lot like our father. Smart, hardworking, honest. Also quite a bit like our mother, compassionate and headstrong. Good shit.
I eventually moved back to California, and due to Sam being on the  North coast, and me in the high desert ( and the fact that I still hadn't pulled my alcoholic head out of my ass) we only saw each other on holidays. My relationship with my entire family was extremely strained during this time. (Did I mention my head up my ass?) Long story short, I eventually handled my business, went to rehab, and set about getting a life. When I got out of rehab, Sam had been with Kalindi for maybe a couple of years, I'm not precisely sure. I had met her when Sam graduated from HSU, but I've always felt that people I met before I got clean in late 2011 should be revisited. So my sober self hadn't spent a significant amount of time with her. Until her, myself, and my mother sat and played marathon rounds offers rummy around Christmas that year. Wanna get to know someone? Play cards with  them for 6 hours or so. I definitely liked her, she fit in well  and didn't seem to want to run screaming into the hills, because Kirbys can be slightly overwhelming.
Let's fast forward again. After cleaning up my messy life, I finally graduated beauty school, and celebrated by catching a train up to Humboldt to see my brother and my sister in law. (That's right, I said it. I'd call her my sister but that would be creepy. This ain't Arkansas) I was stoked. Sam and I hadn't really spent more than 48 hours or so together in years, and I was really looking forward to getting to know Kalindi even more. I spent an amazing week with them. Doing nothing more than just chilling, talking, eating. You know, FAMILY stuff. I got completely reacquainted with my little brother, yes basically the same kid. Just taller, hairier, and more responsible, but with the same intelligent and creative spark in his eyes. Maybe even more importantly, I came to adore Kalindi. She's perfect for Sam, an excellent balance. When you grow up the way I did, with young parents and a sibling this much younger, its almost like being a third parent. You get a little protective about people who come into the life of the one you hold dearly. I have no worries, however. The day I left Arcata after my visit was bittersweet. It was a little teary, but its always difficult to leave something that makes your heart sing. On the sweet side, it was excellent to see that kid, who is the spitting image of our father, all grown up, doing his thing and starting a family with an amazing woman.
Did I say starting a family? OK, well it hadn't happened yet at that point. Several months later, I received the best phone call ever. There is a baby on the way.  End of next month sometime. I'm going to be an aunt. I'm beyond excited about it. I always knew he'd beat me to the punch, and I'm OK with that. At a point in my life, I swore I'd never have children. I may be reconsidering that. But I digress. That kid that our amazing mother father raised? He's going to be an amazing father, just like Kalindi will be an outstanding mother. I'm feeling pretty damn blessed right now, because family is everything. And mine is getting bigger. For some, family has nothing to do with blood or birth certificates, but the people who are there for you with a smile and a hug, who stick it out with you, accept your faults and admit their own. Family is a feeling. You can't buy it, trade it or steal it. It comes from a place within you that no one else can ever touch. Its priceless, hang on to it at all costs, its worth the fight, so don't give up the ship.
Here's to the future.