I don’t even know if I can do it, y’all. Too many wounds that haven’t fully healed. I just…nawl. The challenge might stop here.
What up, cuz?! How’s life treating you? How are things? Well, everything, really. I feel like Facebook updates and pics of your adorabo baby just aren’t enough. How is fatherhood treating you? You seem settled, in a good way. Before you had that whole “Jack of all trades, master of none” vibe going on, but it seems like you’ve really found your niche. I’m so, so proud. We don’t talk enough. Life gets in the way sometimes, I understand. It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen you, but that’s how time flies, I suppose. When are you coming to Chicago? Are we doing a family reunion thing again? If so, no one’s mentioned it to me and mines. I’m considering another road trip this summer, anyway, so I’ll definitely see you one way or another. What are you listening to these days? Always on the forefront of culture. I miss you, seriously. Please know that I think of you often. Kiss the baby for me.
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Dear Mama Stevens,
Hey, Mama, hey. Can I call you that? You seem so motherly and wise in my mind’s eye. If that ain’t right, I’d easily settle into addressing you as the Queen of Funk. I’m all about titles and fancy thangs. Let’s sit and chat and talk about people while I fry us up some chicken. You from Chicago, right? Southside? Whew Lawd, I bet you done seen some things about someTHINGS, amirite? Getting down with the Black Panthers had to have provided some poignant slices of life. Oh, to have been young, black, and free when none of those things were taken for granted. Chile, please. Can I give you a hug? I always said that you prolly give some epic ass hugs. And your hair! I’m team natural all the way, but your glorious mane is speaking to my soulspace right about now. A good blowout never hurt nobody - I’m putting a pic of you on my vision board. That smile, that voice, that raw talent…ooh wee, I’m getting teary eyed just thinking about it. Thank you for being you. Now, do you need some hot sauce with these wangs?
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More rule-bending. I’m writing this to all of you.
Thank you for making blogging, and the internets, fun again. Thank you for reading my words, whether I’m writing from a place of ratchetry, frustration, or sorrow. Thank you for the comments, the insight, the oversharing, and the inherent sense of inclusion I feel here. Tumblr stays winning. I’m grateful I’m here.
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You are the reason that I consistently tell my friends that “Potential will kill you”. Friends, puppy love, high school sweethearts, fiance, and now the father of my child. You quite literally had everything at the very tips of your fingers, including me, yet insisted on fcking it up beyond repair. No reason in particular, no method to your madness. I had no need to question why things ended up the way they did. It was simple. You weren’t used to stability, hope, confidence. You never had an example of a healthy relationship, and instead of fighting against the status quo, you took the lazy way out and let history repeat itself.
Being around you is hard for me, mostly because I’m a firm believer in the reason, season, lifetime model of relationships. Your season was over long ago, but we’re inexplicably tied together because of our child. I work diligently to ensure that the both of you have a relationship, and pray that one day you finally get it together, for her sake as well as yours.
You see me changing, and it bothers you to some degree. I’m steeped in positivity, actively working to take care of myself, building a rich life despite, well…everything. You’re not even 30 and have somehow peaked…I want the same for you, but you have to claim it yourself.
I hope 2011 is kind to you, but remember that you only get out what you put in.
I wrote the letter below before I discovered that the ex in question broke into my motherfcking house. While the general sentiment is the same, let me add a small postscript:
You are a bitchmade, hoeass, grimey ass waste of fcking space. The things you stole can be easily replaced, because in case you didn’t notice, I stay fcking winning. However, your visitation rights cannot. Piggy is a GIFT, and when you steal from me, you’re stealing from her. I went to church and prayed for you after finding out what happened, because through everything I’m stronger, wiser. But no worries, because you’ll have, at minimum, 364 days to contemplate your poor choices in prison. Good luck with that.
Wait, what? I’m totally cheating on this one. Here’s a link to the most ridiculous letter I ever had to write a stranger. That fool set us back at least 2 generations. At least.
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I have a variation of this dream, on average, twice a week. Naturally, it causes me to wake up in a state of confusion, panic, and annoyance time and time again. I could wax poetic about how this might translate into feeling unprepared about a stressful situation, or how my coping skills are as frail as Terrence J’s ribcage, but none of that appeals to me right now. I’m just comforted in the fact that googling “college exam dream” yields a babillion results. Someone out there gets it.
I intended to write a completely different letter, but upon hearing that you lost your mom this morning, I’ll share my words with you in person. Sadly enough, I’ve been where you are before. As bleak as life seems, know that there are moments of joy on the other side. You can get through this. We can get through this. I love you.
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Dear Mama and Daddy,
Neither of you could stand to see me cry, so I’m gonna keep this short. I know y’all are still watching over me and Pigs. Still, not a day, not a single moment, passes by without missing each of you with every fiber of my being. I’ve tried to fill that void with other things, but now I know that grief doesn’t work that way. I’m doing better. Healing. Growing. Struggling to accept my new normal. But it’s getting better. Really. I’m getting help and I am tentatively looking towards the future. Hopeful, for once. I’ll continue to make you both proud and see myself as you saw me. Brimming with promise. Untapped potential. So many things are coming to fruition that it makes me dizzy, but I’m ready for it.
Love you dearly,
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I have not crushed on someone in years. Years. **cries in my tea** But I do remember the joy and agony of it all, wanting someone and not being sure if your feelings were reciprocated. Here is a letter voicing my feelings during that time.
You are rude for emanating this many pheromones in church. I’m pretty sure Jesus is Not Pleased.
I swear if you smile one more time I’m just going to log off of life. Those lips, those teeth are just…perfection. You asked me about which elements resonated with me after the lecture and I’m scrambling to come up with a Fancy Answer when all I really want to do is close my eyes and think about the space between your impossibly broad shoulders and your neck. How am I supposed to concentrate?!
You stand up to speak and the bass in your voice catches me off guard. You speak with passion, assuredness, sparking a fiery debate that I replay in my head for the rest of the week. Point, counterpoint. Point. Counterpoint. POINT. COUNTERPOINT. Finally you concede and compliment the depth of my knowledge. I am absolutely smitten.
Little do I know that these debates will be the foundation of our relationship, and our ultimate downfall. Your steadfast conviction versus my endless capacity for nuanced interpretation. The thought of you still makes me grin. I hope you are well, and happy. The world needs more smiles like yours.
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