Another Country, Another Way

In January, I wrote a single line on my vision board I hope you listen to yourself and chart your own course. I had a habit of doing the opposite. February, I picked up the novel Another Country by James Baldwin — a black american writer. The story is about a group of friends whose relationships are challenged by resentment, lies, hypocrisy, and isolation as a result of racism and prejudices about homosexuality, race, gender, and status. The novel was published in 1960 showing the psychological, emotional, and physiological effects of living in a world that decides people’s worthiness based on sexuality, race, gender, social economics, religion, etc. As I was reading  I came across these words in the story…

“There are no standards for him because he could not accept the definitions, the hideously mechanical jargon of the age. He saw no one around him worth his envy, did not believe in the vast gray, gray sleep that was called security, did not believe in the cures, panaceas, and slogans that afflicted the world he knew; and this meant that he had to create his own standards and make up his definitions as we went along. It was to him to find out who he was, and he had to do this…”

Each of Baldwin’s characters was attempting to pave a life for themselves outside of what society mandated. I resonated with those who self-inflicted their pain while attempting to evolve from the society in which they lived. I knew how easy it is to be absorbed by a world where what “truth is” is told to you, even if it’s for your survival.

I hear my mother’s words “Monica we have to work twice as hard” and yet I’m always tired.

Teachers who critiqued my strength “Monica, you need to be more vulnerable” and yet I created a barrier to protect myself.

“You’re arrogant” because I shouldn’t show my confidence.

So much of who I was constructed for me. I prioritized agreeableness because my questions were perceived as combative. I accepted other people’s standards and understanding over defining my own. All that understanding and I couldn’t hear my voice. I became resentful and easily angered until I disengaged from the world entirely. Now, that I’m back I fear I’m a coward for having disengaged. I fear that during this process, it may come at a cost to the relationships I’ve cultivated. The words or sentences I once stood behind may reveal my complicity, ignorance, or fear. Maybe I will be misunderstood and perceived with malicious intent. And still, the work must be done. I must explore the definitions that I’ve accepted and those that I’ve avoided. I must test my understanding. I must step outside the vastness of security, into a vocation of the arts, living as a foreigner, outside of my concept of individualism, and success. And then what is after that?

James wrote those words 84 years ago navigating his truth and testing his understanding. His words were a lighthouse that reassured me of the importance of finding our way. I lived so long without discerning my values and morals. Now, I’m discovering my own.

A Year Later

The last newsletter I wrote was in September 2023, a year where my job as a recruiter had dried up, layoffs were frequent, and I was a foreigner living in Paris. Additionally, there was financial stress, and a built-up resentment of holding myself back from making a career as an actress and writer happen. I felt stuck, angry at myself for all the unforeseen circumstances that had arrived at my doorstep. I bounced between the extremity of worrying about how I would make a living and wanting something new for myself.

With all the decisions in front of me, there was an immediate decision that needed to be made: either stay or leave Paris. So I made a move down to the south of France for six months as a temporary solution, subletting my apartment while hunting down the next job opportunity.

During my time in Toulouse, I spent most of it sitting on the steps of a bridge looking out over the river. The town’s leisure pace only offered more time for introspection. I had no distractions between looking at myself and my past. At present, I felt too suffocated by the prospect of leaving a place I worked to call home. I spent sunsets feeling angry and defeated. I came back each day to the same steps watching life come and go around me, and I cried. All while being in the midst of a new relationship, that was sped up by my current situation. Life was also making me confront my belief of independence. I always planned to have my own just in case. To be prepared in case the relationship did not work. I worked for years keeping relationships at a distance for fear that maybe there would be a moment where I misplaced my trust in someone. Yet, there I was having help from another.

I was in a relationship and felt that I had nothing to offer. Who was I when I wasn’t making money? Able to support myself? Not fun to be around? Not feeling like me? Not sleeping at night due to insistent thoughts that made me admit I didn’t really like who I was. I didn’t know how to like myself. I never gave it thought. I thought the game of survival was to make sure everyone else liked you. Everything was changing, and there were choices that still required my attention. I was stuck, scared of making any decisions that could result in becoming a permanent mistake. I remained in a state of worry that revealed other less desirable qualities about me. When I was frustrated, I was short-tempered. When I was dissatisfied, I blamed other people and things. When things felt soulfully too hard to bear, I retreated. When I didn’t like something, I tried to bend it to my rule.

This time the more I attempted to bend life around me, the crazier I felt. Yet, each time I sat on the steps, feeling something deeper than my dissatisfaction pulling me. I had told myself that if I accepted life currently as it was, I was giving up on what it could be. On all the possibilities. My own potential. I went in circles, knowing that feeling the absorbent amount of worry and stress would eventually kill me. I had to face the fact that it was going to be harder to go backward than forward. And forward was going to require effort and energy if something was going to change. I also knew going backward would be that permanent mistake.

If there was no going backwards, I had to begin somewhere. Starting with making peace with myself that maybe I was not fixed. During my walks and time on the steps, I saw the leaves shift colors. I saw how winter emptied the bridge of people. The water levels were decreasing. I noticed the ground losing its moisture. If nothing in nature was fixed, how was I excluded? Why wouldn’t the tides of my desires change like the ocean? Why couldn’t I want to walk along another path? What kept me from committing to a different career? Allowing myself to have someone who I can trust to care for me in my relationship? Why could friendships not change and even end? Everything about me was growing and changing, and the notion of a fixed idea of myself was causing internal discord. I began to see the expectations of myself from how I currently defined myself. I had forged an image of myself, a partial truth. It was a partial truth that I accepted as absolute, that lacked new information.

If who I had grown into was a partial truth, then maybe there were other things I had yet to discover about myself. Now that I could not envision anything forward, I had to embrace a new present; trial and error along the way. If I could listen to what was speaking within me, then maybe I could trust myself. How could I value the voice assured me that everything was happening for a reason, while I was in the middle of this instability?

Bittersweet

I've come to love the bitter taste of coffee. A shift I've only recognized today living through the early afternoon of Paris. I confess I used to be a milk with a little "coffee" connoisseur. My mind attempts to trail this subtle and eased shift. Was it in London alongside the pouring droplets colliding with skin that no longer seemed to fit? Retracing, longing for the moments where I can pin the exactness of transformation. In vein it's never quite that simple, more often it's tepid. I in ignorance imagine arriving at a dramatic revelation of cosmic shifts. It arrives, plain. As a new fact of simple difference. Of course it's months until I notice this having coexisted alongside me quite some time. Watching; observing until I distinguished it. Like now as I peer up from the tasse in deep satisfaction. The little bite teasing the back of my tongue, letting me know of its existence. A taste of its birth, its weight. A sensual nature often experienced with displeasure. Knowledge that our senses are not only meant for indulged sweetness. The tongue's palette, akin to life's design created for a spectrum of experiences. Perhaps, Life's notes is the shift, the reward of infinite expression on living. Surrendering to a life that is alive and dynamic. Much like the receding note of coffee on my tongue

Friends

Friends. A last minute arrival to Paris. A text confirming a time and location. Early afternoon. The conversation light while the smoked bbq wings are placed centered on the table. We sip our drinks re-familiarizing ourselves after years. Time will make a stranger of someone. This version steady and knowing. The main course arrives. The laughs begin to flow with ease as the fizz from Prosecco loosen our tongues. Excitement of old stories told anew. Laughs of the absurd. Revelations brought on by time and distance. New philosophy. Life coming clear into focus. The depth of a person I realized I knew so little about. We pay our bill.

Our feet carrying us through the parc. People stroll. Laughter penetrates our ears. A backdrop of clear blue skies. The sun deepens the melanin of our skin. Rediscovering my now home through new eyes. He mentions a location on his list. Confessing the hunchback of Notre Dame was his favorite movie as a child. "It's dark", he chuckles. We pause. I look over. Someone whose sunny demeanor charms anyone within a meter of his radius. We laugh. Life full of surprises. Depth. We walk. We arrive. A moment where a child's imagination meets their reality. I see those young eyes. He hoists himself upon the granite bench for a better view. His body morphing into small child-like wonder. He stands silent. I sit. Now caught in my own remembering. The silence insulates us into our imagination. He plops down. We talk about Disney for 30 minutes. He tells me every single detail of the hunchback. He points out the differences. Looking out for the village. A bit of disappoint crossing his face as the last of nostalgia sobers him up. That was a long time ago. Time passes. Inevitably our youth dissipates. We return to our adult selves. Sitting. The noises around us becoming louder.

We decide for another round of drinks. We walk lost for a bit until we land at brasserie. We take a seat. Our conversation deepening. Questions are asked. Confessions are had. Night falls. Yet it's still early. We have shifted from champagne to petite cafes. Time has arrived. We walk to my metro stop. We hug. Squeezing to savor a new understanding of someone we did not know before our day had began. I turn around as a pang of grief grazes me. I walk down the metro stairs taking in the faint smell of urine and the bustling of tourist trying to navigate their way back to their place of rest. Strangers among friends.

People & Process

The past week of learnings…

“I kill my shy. I walk into a room and I immediately kill my shy. I don't care if people laugh at me. You know how hard it is to learn a language? - On learning french for the past two years.” - Learning a new language (JN, My Loving Partner)

“I like to think that we are not compatible. They don't need to change. I don't need to change. We are just incompatible. - On ending friendships or any relationship”. - (KH, Big Sister and high key my inspiration)

“I'm just worried about my happiness. I want to do things because I'm happy.” - On the pursuit of an artistic life that isn't quantified by outdated versions of success. (TC, Soul Sister)

“They hired me to do a job. I got off book. I made the choices. There is only so much work I can do on my own. - On owning your artistic worth, process, and confidence. (TC, Soul Sister)

“I had a tendency to always go around the thing I wanted. I always was doing the hard thing. Do what comes easy to you. Start there.” - On writing because it comes natural to me. (KH)

“Why are people so eager for children to learn and adults to know it all? I sat in the room and watched people of all ages and various countries trying to learn french. Everyone applauded at the little boys attempt. Not one person clapped for another adult.” - On the learning gap as an adult (MS, human up at 3am)

Tarnished Books

I flipped the page of the book. A thought. Popping into my head. I shut the book. One of my hands rests on the book's spine. The title is broken by the spine's creases. The creases are like the rings of a tree displaying the life of the book. I return to the page held by my index finger. I stop to look around. I search for the black .03 pen. Ah. Yes. I pick up the pen. Touching its point to the page. A scratching noise from the touch of pen to paper. My hand stops. I don't remember when I started this practice. I think of a time I roamed through the library or bookstore. Searching with only a feeling toward my next adventure. Then a voice compelled me to stop in a section. My hand traced over books not exactly knowing what I was in search of. When I would hear the soft "stop". I would open the books to find pen markings, and highlighted, or underlined words on the page. The book was desecrated. There were other times the books had small written sentences or paragraphs. My eyes try to decepher the runaway chicken scratch. Others were left with questions or asterisks. People were vandalizing property. The property of ideas, thoughts, and the imagination of the authors. Their carelessness, indifference, or arrogance scrawled away the beauty of the author's words.

I would discard the books immediately. As if touching those battered books would trace curses through my fingertips up my arms. Infuriated. Would someone write on another's painting? These markings seemed meaningless. Like a trashed stall in a bathroom with its sharpie'd writing. Not only were people inconsiderate. They were not deserving. Had I any more righteousness then, I would have searched for these perpetrators. The scratching sound comes to an end. I pause. In thought. My hand moves to the right corner of the page. The time now finds me littering the pages with my thoughts, feelings, and confusion. When did I begin to do the very thing I detested? I only remember squeezing a book with excitement from an author's familiarity. How could someone know my life at this exact time in depth? A sentence that helped me set a boundary. A passage that opened up the eyes of my soul. A flutter of love whenever two lovers I wanted desperately to be met. Philosophical questions that persisted. Encouraging questions about what it means to live. The words spoke. They touched something in me. They ushered me to confirm my existence every time I marked the page. Making love between my thoughts and the authors' words.

I was too young in age and spirit to understand those markings then. Their proof of existence. Their affirmation of living. Souls like mine who made love with the author's words. Had these people too attempted to shift their narratives? Inspired. Stimulated into action. Or imagination. I once preferred my books pristine. Untouched. Pure. Now I search for books with handwriting. I treat them as precious diary entries for they reveal something of importance. That words are magnificent living art.

A Twin 20 Years Apart

I have my mothers face. Sure. Many people echo this statement but I HAVE MY MOTHERS FACE. It's as if this woman popped herself out on a cold windy day in January. An inconvenience for the Dr. with the Super Bowl kick-off to start in less than 15 minutes. The pressure. I imagine my mother pushing with ferocity, sweat beating down her petite face. Legs sprawled open about to punt a little ball of her own into the world. By accident she did not receive an epidural; a prologue to a good ole fashioned birth. She reminds me of this at least twice a year. As of recent I started wishing her a happy "labor day" on my birthday in recognition. That 19 year old brilliant woman pushed and out I came. A healthy baby with my mothers face.

There was never a time that people did not remind me of how much we looked alike. My mother's colleagues, friends, strangers, and distant cousins would yell; "oooooooooh your daughter looks JUST LIKE YOU." They would look back and forth. Laugh and make the same joke that she had no help in my conception. My mother would roll her eyes and twist her lips to the side. What person gets accustomed to seeing their face walk around, crying, making a mess, and being a terrible 2? Yes. I do look my mother. With two exceptions. She has freckles across her cheeks. I have the darkest brown eyes. Yet those differences aren't enough to capture a strangers attention. What the Gods/Goddess thought when they repeated Charlene's face I have no idea. And I am lucky. I will always have something to remember her. Something special that belongs to me only. My heart swells with an emotion that overwhelms my soul. My first love. A mother's love.

My mother led my way to love like a prophet. My education with love began with her. Her love is warm, open, and determined. She's demonstrated this version of love to me over and over. Charlene, my mother, tells me of the time when she was recruited to join the CIA . When they informed her of the requirement to put me up for adoption she declined. My mother declined to attend UCLA and many other opportunities of a lifetime. Yet, she didn't put her dreams on hold. She modified them to make sure they fit a world that we could both live in. She taught me love is compromise.

She's always had the ability to make beautiful traditions with less. From our Friday movies nights. Thanksgiving she would make us a soft pallet on the floor and we would eat popcorn and watch The Wizard of Oz. First of December, a Motown's Christmas played in the background. We drank hot chocolate with tons of marshmallows and decorated the tree. She taught me love was an intention.

She showed me love was magical. I would walk into my pink Spice Girls bedroom and there on my bed were coloring books, novels, and chocolates. She encouraged my imagination. It wasn't even valentines day! It was just because. We would color together. Her favorite books filled with angel's. I learned how to outline the pictures with the dark colors and fill in with a lighter color of the same hued family. That was magical. I experienced wonder in those moments. Joy filled and lighter than dust particles. She taught me love was creativity.

When I won 2nd place in my art class she hung it up because she loved what I created. Love needed no trophy to exist in our home or her heart. Because love recognized effort. It existed because we existed. My mother demonstrated her love through patience, curiosity, and responsibility. The harder lessons rooted in sit down conversations. There I learned love is knowledge. She always made sure we had transparency into her decisions. Her why. Even if we disagreed; her practice of love taught me trust. She taught me love was consideration.

Her love set a deep sisters foundation for me. I saw the power of a woman's love and believed women had a deep capacity to love. I felt safe and secure with women because of my mother. To this day my ability to be in constant community and communion with women extends from my mothers love. An outside love that radiated inwards. Something that was being given to me. She taught me love was community.

This woman who gave me her face also gave me a heart of full love. Her very own to be exact.