So, I’ve been back in Melbourne for 4 months, and no one has tried to touch my hair.Continue reading “we move”
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 have been an extremely neglectful blog owner, I know.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s continue. I’m going back to Melbourne, officially. I’ve already experienced the excitement of it offline, of getting my visa finally, of booking my flights, of booking my air bnb and telling everyone I should tell, that I’m off, for good this time. I’ll be back to London, of course, because I’m always back.Continue reading “Title pending”
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”
The ball of his feet. Synthetic material. One toe poking out of the sheet, the other foot pressing lightly against my calf. Things feels strange all the time now. I try not to stir him. The lawyer will call in an hour but we’ll both ignore our phones. We’re having an ‘us’ day. Our last day, together. I wonder if sleeping is a waste of time. He snores softly beside me and I suppose not.Continue reading “Bounce”
Welcome to another bitesize episode of Headscarves and Carry-ons, aka a carry-on! This week we’re cold, mad, and very reflective because 2018 is over! Listen, like, share…you know the drill by now – and let this tide you over until we return with a brand new season!Continue reading “Carry-on 2: Cold and Mad”
We said we wouldn’t leave you high and dry while we’re on hiatus, and you know we never lie!
Here’s a little carry-on for you; a little something that makes your journey a teensy bit better! Take a listen and find out what we’ve been up to!
Oh and don’t forget to use the hashtag #Headscarvesandcarryons to let us know what you thought of this little treat! More to come soon…
Image credit: Handbag by Hermine Blanquart from the Noun Project
I haven’t been updating my blog. I feel like it gets to this time of year, and this automatically happens, because I get the holiday blues. I’ve been on this Earth for 32 years and I still haven’t completely figured out why – the reasons seem to change with the years, even if one thing remains constant, which is the disconnectedness of my family. But this isn’t really about that.Continue reading “So, here’s the real, real”
I am the rejection queen. I don’t administer too many rejections myself, but I have become an expert at receiving them. Especially the big rejections – the ones that have a larger life impact, that can sway how the rest of your day, week, even year could go. And it’s not something I ever foresaw myself being able to handle really, because at heart I am a pretty sensitive person, who used to be very impacted by the opinions of others. But I suppose age and practice really do make perfect. Or they make for mild desensitisation; it’s unclear.
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
In a previous life I was a psychotherapist. Now I’m a struggling writer with a residual desire to continue giving unsolicited advice on mental health and the human experience, in the hopes that something good will come out of my currently wasted therapy training.
Send in your questions using the form below and I’ll attempt to answer them. No promises though.
Today I took a different route to work. There’s nothing special about that except that I got to see how London is still vines of roads and pockets of alleyways. People still rush and zoom and frown and avoid eye contact here. People do that in lots of other places too, to be fair. But you know, London has its own special way of doing things.
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.
I can freely acknowledge that this blog has been pretty depressing thus far, which is an accurate representation of what I’ve been feeling. Not depressed exactly, but definitely out of it mentally, trying to find my way back in and make sense of my identity here, in this place. Sometimes you have to go backwards to do that, right?
I wish I had used this site like I did last year, ideally even more so. I wish I had written in my journal even half as much as I did last year. I wish, I wish, I wish.
This year has flown by. I spent the first 6-7 months allowing my job to totally rule my life, and the last two trying to wrest it from its grasp. It makes me sad to think that there are tons of happy memories that I’ve made this year that I’ve already forgotten, or will forget in the coming few months. 2019 is a lot more worth remembering than 2018, which I’m more than happy to allow to fizzle out and fade from my mind entirely.
I spent an hour at the Tokyo Photographic Art Museum this evening. Something so small, so easily done, feels like it’s lit a fire inside me…
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My latest piece “Calling” is in the Storm Cellar Quarterly issue below – here’s an excerpt…
“I’ll see you in two years: that way agent orange won’t get any of my money.”
She chuckles over the phone, understanding and not really getting it. I shouldn’t have said anything. Illinois doesn’t crackle over the phone anymore, between there and London, where I am…
You can buy the full issue here – https://wp.me/p1tViT-KB