My Big 3 0

Sep. 28th, 2011 06:37 pm
missrenie: (steam)
I just turned 30

About five years ago I told myself that by time I turned 30 I would weigh x amount of weight.
It was going to be my gift to myself. Finally conforming and squeezing my body into what was "socially acceptable"

But some things happened. My life changed and the only weight I lost was 165ish pounds of boyfriend who held me down, and back and at the same time up to some incredibly impossible standards.

In fact I've gained.
Joy, happiness, fierceness and part of that comes from being able to show the world what I once hated so much

My body.

I had not realized how much everything centered around my body.
My ability to hold my head up in a job interview,
Shame was eating at a restaurant,
Anger was trying on clothes,
Fear was take a trip
Embarrassment was meeting my partner's friends and family.

It was inescapable... this all encompassing adipose. I hated it, I hated me.

I wish I could tell you what changed.
I wish I could tell you how I changed.
Its too much like that "Dune" quote. The one about passing through your fear and looking back and seeing nothing because only you remain.

Well only I remain.
I am not ashamed to touch my body now
Can you imagine how seriously fucked up that is? Being ashamed to touch your own body?
The weight of no longer being repulsed by my own weight was heavier to me than my actual hips and thighs
and ass

I can look in the mirror and see what I look like and not compare that to what I wanted to look like.
I can see my own face sans the superimposed silhouette of societies views

To some people my fat says that I am lazy, that I eat three times the amount a "normal" person would eat, that I am sick or shut in, that I am depressed or stupid because obviously I do not love myself or want anyone else to love me either, that I have been abused in some way... that I need to be fixed.

but I'm not broken
there are no mental issues, I'm not diabetic nor do I suffer from hypertension, I am vegetarian and borderline vegan who eats all her meals home cooked and full of veggies,I exercise, I dance and sing, my week days are long and I doubt you could keep up with me on the weekend...

See that was the defensive side of me. The one side that feels like I have to explain or excuse myself. Because people sneer at me

People sneer at me
because I am fat
because I am black
because I am nappy headed
because I have the nerve to be HAPPY while being all of the above

The really fucked up thing about this is that deep down and somewhere inside I believed them.

I don't anymore.

I'm angry and I'm motivated. I don't think that is being reflected in the wording or the tone of this post but I am. Its this slow burning thing that's heating up all my blood and skin and bones but instead of turning it inward it's going right where it belongs

To the judgmental sizest cunt faces, the dick headed fat-o-phobes, the assholes, the haters... I don't owe you anything aside from my foot up your ass.

I just turned 30
I'm finally at home in my body
I just turned 30
and it looks damn good on me

I miss

Feb. 13th, 2007 06:16 pm
missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)

I miss
so bad
that I can taste it
if I bite my tongue
hard enough
I can taste it in my blood
it flows like music
up into me
and through me




I miss
Crescent Bends
the way the sounds of the street
with horse shoe cadence
the smell of these friends
coffee fresh and chicory kissed
flour fried into a pillow
delicate snow sugar misted
 I miss
Rain singin', slipin', spillin' on cobblestones
melted brown sugar, molasseses and pecans
I miss
broiled crawfish, crab, shrimp
and the songs
that get between your knees
and then crash into your feet

I miss
and green
the way the street lights danced off of a trombone
a bright golden sheen
I miss
I miss
New Orleans


Oct. 2nd, 2006 12:31 pm
missrenie: (Default)
All I could think was

I’m not ready.
Not ready to lose my mother.
When Joe called me early that morning to tell me that she was in the hospital
in a voice that was meant to keep me calm,
I freaked out.
I hung up the phone and screamed.
Screamed, screamed and cried until I was sick.
When I called her, her voice was so small.
I tried to keep the tears in but I couldn’t help it.
She just keep saying,
“Don’t cry... I love you too.”
I apologized for crying, and hung up.

I spoke with mama today
She said the pain had gotten so bad that she was passing out and that is when she realized that she had to go to the hospital.
She called friends and asked for a ride.
They were worried.
They wanted her to call an ambulance.

She said “ No, I wanna walk out
cause I’m planning on walking back in!”

When she reached the hospital
They didn’t want to help her
because of how she looked.
Because of the locks in her hair
“But God gave me the pain at just the right time,” she said.
She passed out again.
They admitted her.
They didn’t give her anything for the pain,
because of the locks in her hair and the color of her skin
“They made me drink the liquid for the GI test even though I said I couldn’t”
My mother who graduated summa cum laude.
“But I threw up”
My mother a teacher of 30 plus years.
“And I kept throwing up.”
Because of the locks in her hair and the color of her skin.
“They thought I was a one of those pain pill abusers... or hooked on drugs.”
There was no anger in her voice, no shock or surprise.
Just an occupational hazzard of being a black woman who reused to let society tell her how to look while living in the south.

There is a tube in her stomach and sucking the stuff out of her intestines.
Her insides are twisted.

Family gathered.
She says “ There were so many people here that they might as well have had fried chicken and red beans... It looked like a family reunion.”
She laughed.
“You’re on extreme detox momma,” I say after she tells me about the nutrients having to be pumped in intra venously.
“I’ll be a brand new woman... brand new on the inside,” She replies “I’ve been struggling with those last few pounds... I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that now.”

Family went to her FEMA  trailer in New Orleans. to try to find something to eat... to help “clear” the fridge so she would not have to worry about food going off when she got back.
But they didn’t know what to do with contents of my mother’s refrigerator:
steelcut oats
whole grain rice
alligator pearls (avocados)
kashi whole grain fiber ceral

“Aunt Ella said that it was all the fiber ...she said:
 that’s what I get for eating all funny”
They made fun of her for the healthy foods she ate and all she could do was hold up her hand in protest.

“Look at the bread” They said to her.“ No wheat?! Seeds and grains?! Lawd Joyce if you dropped this so called bread on the ground it would grow trees!!!”
All she could do was groan and roll her eyes as they talked over her scolding her for eating funny  and promising to feed her proper when she got out:
red beans with rice
collards with hammock
pig tails
chicken stews
“Good Lawd!!!!” they said to her “It’s a wonder you aint wasted away on stuff like that... that’s not cereal that’s twigs and branches honey... Joyce when you get out of here we will get you right again”:
creamed potatoes
fried chicken
fried okra
hot water corn cakes.

She’s not mad... not mad at all about the scolding, the wagging fingers, the gentle rebukes and pokes.  She knows like I know like they know... food in the hands of a southern woman is not simply a dish, not simply a recipe but a magick spell passed from mother to daughter, shared from sister to sister, entrusted friend to friend.  Powerful and potent potions stirred mixed from the mind rarely written that whispers the secrets of mothers gone and yet to come again.

Aunt Ella said:
You coming home with me when you get outta here.

Jeanie and Sharah said:
She staying here with us so she can get on her feet
so she can get back to work

Aunt Ella said:
She stays with me you hear!!
That’s my sistah’s baby
She commin home so I can take care of her

Mama said:
Oh Lord
and groans

but there is a smile beneath it.

Don’t let them make you  mama.
I say
I won’t
she whispers...
voice warm and worn and tried still the most beautiful sound in the universe to me
the sound of my mother’s voice in my ear
I know I have to let her go.
So she can rest.
But it’s hard to do.

I’ll never be ready to let go of her
this woman,
my mother
I’m not ready
and I never will be ready
My soul is wrapped in her soul
I learned the rhythm of the heart’s beat from hers.
I learned to dance and sing and cry.
I learned to fight, and cuss, survive.
There are still things for her to teach me.
but I’m not ready for that lesson.
And I’ll never be ready for the last lesson she has to teach me
the lesson
of letting go.

missrenie: (Tree of Knowledge)



this one I wrote about home
about NewOrleans

A letter to a lover lost

I hated you.
Because you would never let me go.
I tried to wash you off... forget you
I changed my walk... I changed my talk... I almost changed my name
But some distant smell would wash over me... even here on the Pacific it would reach me
and reach into me and invade me.
Oregano, thyme, parsley, paprika tossed together on someones tilapia... all it was missing was the cayenne
and then all I was missing was you
City of Sin
City of Redemption
City of Joy
City of Sex
City of Art and Love and Magnolias
of the Dead
and I am stranded, robbed of my tomb. I always knew I would return to you... even if it was in a pine wood box. But not for one moment, one second, one breath did I think that you would leave me first.
There are no alabaster stones for my bones.

But the tings you did to me. Oh dear god the things you did and who you were... a violently poetic abusive lover. I would swear you off and youd get me drunk and Id come back again and again. A whore with a hurricane in her veins needing a fix from you.

You strangled me when you made love to me, And made me feel like there was no one else. A talent of yours... makin the world disappear.

And here I am in a place with these ugly and inadequate palm trees, with massive god aged redwoods , with soft brown sands and dark green and blue surf that seems like an eternity sweeping before me...
and all I want to do is to curl up inside that little bowl by the river bend. Sit beneath an old oak with a beard of Spanish moss, skin as brown as mine, curvy as the women who walked beneath them while a mosquito silently violates my leg.
The sea to me looks the same but your mystery was contast change

I want you
I want you bad
I want you to give it to me hard and rough with oil and fire, crawfish and jazz, crumbled hot brick buildings, black bodies dancing to the drummers beat, old folk business,
and second line.
And I want you to forgive me
because no matter how much of a bitch you were. You were family and blood and water and flesh and bone and heart and me. And I thought I was better than you. So much better than you
But I was wrong
we are the same
were the same

Can you hear me?
Can you still hear me?
I want you to open the door.
Im knocking on the door.
I want to come home.


Sep. 20th, 2006 12:10 pm
missrenie: (Default)

After a seven year vacation to Goddess knows where
it returned
last night
or rather
this morning
2:47 am
I stumbled into the bathroom
looked down
and there it was
the best belated birthday present ever
my period



missrenie: (Default)

Im having a horrible chocolate craving
soooooo I raid the kitchen
I have two choices
I can bake a cake
or I can make pudding
since I might eat the whole cake I opt for the jello
5 minutes it says
so I follow the directions and stick it in the freezer.... precariously in the freezer... which was a bad idea
I decide to make Terick some jello since he loves the stuff. I even decide to make a double layer for him. I go the to freezer to get my pudding out and exactly what I thought would happen happened
so my white dress is covered in pudding
as the bottom of the freezer
I clean up the mess in the freezer and then the freezer, and the refrigerator and then the floor and then the entire kitchen and then myself

Damn OCD

So two hours later
I had popcorn instead and a glass of wine.... Probably should have had the resling

Edited: Bitch you drank the whole bottle stop telling tales.  After which Terick came home to find you drunk on the couch and finally agreed with you that you should get a full time job.... who says alcohol doesn't solve your problems.


Jun. 2nd, 2006 10:54 pm
missrenie: (Default)


I grew up in a place with no hills
So when I moved to Colorado I was impressed.

To me the rises and drops in elevation in the suburban neighborhood I lived in were hills. The actual hills were mountains and the mountains were this monstrous thing looming in the distance like some perfectly color adjusted windows 98 wallpaper. I eventually got used to them... hills I mean.... could never quite wrap my mind around the mountain.
But the more I thought about it I recalled that we had two hills in New Orleans. Monkey Hill in the Zoo and a smaller on in the park. Both were more mounds than hill. I only know that now. Any other hill was a functional hill. Like the levees. One sloped side pushing against the Mississippi or the Lake the other side drowning in it.

My brother and I loved Monkey Hill... mostly from a far. Mother rarely permitted us to climb it for 2 reasons. First she was always fearful that we would snap a bone or hurt ourselves in a way that was beyond her repair. We lacked the little plastic white cards other mothers carried around in their purses with their children's names marked on them in 12 inch Arial font. Insurance... again something I never understand until recently. The second reason was rooted in past and personal pride. My mother grew up in the dying yet still effective arms of Jim Crow. She found it an undignified abasement to allow her children to frolic, roll, climb, jump or even step on anything named "Monkey" Hill. To her they might as well had called it "Nigger Hill"

Once or twice I went to the Zoo with my school but being a Roman Catholic southern institution girls were not allowed to wear pants at least not before I hit sixth grade. And my mother in a determine attempt to make a lady out of me did not allow me to wear biker shorts under my pleated checkered heavily starched skirt. Only white, nude or black slips with a half inch of trim. So rolling down the hill with my classmates was out of the question... not that I liked them anyway.

The only other "hill" was in City Park. The memories of it are very very fond. One day during my senior year after school when I did not have to go to the college campus for classes and was feeling appropriately defiant enough to disregard my band teacher's comical threats of what would happen if I missed another after school session, we piled into one of my friend's white 96 Toyota Corolla station wagon and headed to City Park. We stopped at a little delicious Chinese place for crab ragoon before offering our devoted patronage to the drive through Daquiri shop. Once we were fed and slightly tweaked we cranked up the music and finished our journey to the park. I always loved City Park. The beautiful magnolia trees lined the entrance like a majestic court and the crickets competed with the local chorus of green breasted mallards on the lake...and on and on and on.

We drove three- fourths of a mile into the park, around the museum and headed out. I was disappointed that we were leaving so soon and a bit confused. The driver of the car stopped dead center of the road. "Alright yall know the drill". I got knocked in the head by the saddle oxford covered foot of the girl who sat in the middle as she climbed into the back of the station wagon.
"What the hell" I whispered a bit embarrassed to ask the four other people in the car what was going on. I was ignored.
"You gonna have to pull further back to get enough speed," The other girl in the front seat suggested
"No I don't"
"Yes you do"
"Get more speed?"
"No I don't"
"Yes you do"

At that point the girl in the trunk put her face next to mine and said
"You might wanna buckle up I-re-nay but its more fun if you don't... here hold my drink" The girl I shared the seat with had just planted her feet firmly down and wrapped her hands around the metal part of the driver's headrest and locked her arms.

"Buckle up?" I asked as I took the cup from the girl in back.
She didn't get a chance to explain before the driver pressed down on the ignition so fast that the wheels squeaked and rubber burned. She was thrown back against the window like a rag doll all the while screaming "Hellz yeah... bring it on!!!!" I turned my attention to the front window of the car to see just what the hell was going on.

"Blessed Virgin at the cross!!!!!!!!" I screamed when I saw that we were speeding towards the one hill in City Park. I tried to get on my seat belt but it was hard to do with my hands full. For a brief second I thought about opening the door with my elbow and tucking and rolling. But I wasn't sure if that would hurt more. The only other thing going through my mind was how my mother was going to beat my ass down after I got outta the hospital because of the enormous bill she was going to have to pay on account of me not having any health insurance.

Now although no self respecting southern person of color would dare to watch Dukes of Hazard I had myself witnessed the opening credits of the hooting and hollering good ole boy show and by that small snippet I can say with greatest confidence that the "General Lee" had nothing on that four door family class vehicle. When we crested that rounded breast of earth and concrete we left the ground and hit the heavens. I was weightless rising in my seat until my head came in contact with the roof of the car. And for a brief eternity time squeezed breath out of her lungs slowly just for us.

That car landed and skidded to a halt shaken, stirred and filled with five girls each with sore heads, bruised shins, rapidly racing hearts and sides sore from laughter. The next time I got to sit in back.

So when I moved to Colorado and saw hills for the first time I was indeed impressed but I always thought mine was better.

missrenie: (Default)

Dec 21

So there I was
at 11:30 central time
in the cold
in the dark
Waiting for the damn car that should have been there at 9:30
I would have been livid
If I could stop coughing long enough to be livid
Instead I just whimpered and shivered and became a mark for some limo driver that said he would take me the two hour ride for 150 instead of the 165 that the cabs cost. He called the 165 highway robbery... "I'm a man of God ... blah blah... Jesus blessed me blah blah... I’m a minister..." by this time I knew he was full of shit but I was not going to stay there for eleven more hours waiting for Galveston Limo to send another car when there office opened.... I’d much rather sue. So instead I put on the poor me lost girl in the dark just trying to go home and see her family and got the price down to 100 dollars still to much for my blood but my nose had only stopped running because my snot had turned to ice and I was desperate...
So there I was
at 12:30 central time
in this tiny little town car
waiting for pastor limo driver father of five kids, ex-husband of two wives, sibling of 15 brothers and sisters, diabetic, seemingly sleep deprived, constantly weaving in and out of traffic while taking on at least one of his three cell phones... to get back in the car after detouring over to the home of his heroine addicted first wife so he could giver her bus money. The rest of the ride was uneventful... aside from him taking about how nice he was and how good he was to his mother and how he is kind to others because it is returned... oh and me praying to the Goddess ferishly that he does not swerve off the road and into the gulf of Mexico I arrived safely if not sanely, 110 dollars poorer and warm enough to be livid, but too damn sleepy to do anything except collapse into the lumpy twin bed three yards from the door.


missrenie: (Default)

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