I have returned.
I feel like that’s just my catch phrase at this point. I always feel like I am returning somewhere, from somewhere else. I returned to London. I returned to Chicago. I returned to France. I even returned to Italy. And now I have returned to Melbourne, all shiny and new.
Continue reading “Diary of a Black Girl in Melbourne – Part 1”
I hadn’t grown my horn yet. The thing that would keep the wrong men away, the ones who fetishised and confused me for other-worldly creatures I didn’t know.
“I’ve never been with a Black Woman before.”
I am in fact, a black woman, but not the one this white Australian man was referring to when he invaded my online dating inbox. He meant a caricature, with a large backside, full lips, something tribal and aggressive about the way I dominated as the sexual huntress he imagined me to be.
Read the full story over at Black Ballad
I wonder about it.
What I heard when you spoke to me that first time. We let our tongues loose on topics like travel and gender inequality in the workplace. You expressed scepticism over whether the latter really still exists, and I went to work trying to convince you with facts. I didn’t remember for long moments that you were a straight white male, that you had little knowledge or need for empathy towards those that didn’t look like you. The ones that carried more than your three monikers.
Continue reading “white boy”
Don’t all the best stories start this way: at the beginning of the end. Just after things get difficult. This story is about leaving therapy, about being the therapist and walking out. It is about stepping away from a belief system you had given your life to for ten years.
Exiting the work was a process. You move away from the constant simmer of emotions, forget the polyester smell of the couch cushions, and return to the memories of borrowed time and fifty minutes filled with silence, anguish, and trauma. These were the hardest things to do. Can you talk about these things? Or at least try?
Read the full piece over at Watermelanin Magazine
Image credit: Photo by Artsy Solomon c/o nappy.co
You’re at a crossroads you know. That friend you had from 14 years ago, she’s a mother and a wife. That other friend from 18 years ago, she’s a mother and a wife. Oh and that other friend you had from 22 years ago, she’s a doctor now. So you know, you’re at a crossroads now.
Continue reading “Crossroads”
It wouldn’t be the last time I tried to cure a broken heart with recklessness. The full Spare by Maame Blue can be found at Memoir Magazine.
via Spare by Maame Blue — Memoir Magazine