Amanda Writes…

Before you begin, it’s important for me to note that there have been some changes to this story from it’s original intent back in 2012 for my Creative Writing class. I never changed my grandmother’s name but I did decide instead to use my middle name for the somewhat sake to have a degree of separation from my story. I promised a few nights ago that I would share my older work, and I fully intend to continue doing so and make very little edits as possible because it’s important to see any artists work transform with time and life experience. However, I would be remiss to simply leave this story unedited as it would not have rung true to my spirit or that of my grandmother. When I re-read this a few days ago with the intent of posting, I couldn’t. I spiraled and found myself having a very horrible anxiety attack. My biggest fear in life is forgetting my grandmother, and as I read this story back to myself, I marvel at the small details I remembered 7 years ago, that I know I wouldn’t be able to recall at 29 years old. I can only hope that the memories that I flicker through my mind I can capture and do justice to the bond she and I shared which was unlike any other. My grandmother was my absolute best friend in the entire world, and I would give everything I have to just have one more conversation with her. As the lump in my throat begins to form, I leave you with a day in Spanish Harlem with my Tata.

It was a sunny and hot summer day on Lexington Avenue in the Spanish portion of Harlem, dubbed “El Barrio.” The heat that seeped through her skin wasn’t that filled with humidity, it was the heat that went straight into your bones and made you feel as though your skin was on fire. Amanda looked around as she walked down 116th street with her grandmother, Angela. She squinted from the intensity of the sun, her grandmother looked down at her and chuckled at the sight. Angela looked around the street and mapped her plan of all the errands that they needed to run that day.

            They passed the Cuchifrito, the Puerto Rican fried fritter joint that everyone went to get their taste of back home on the Island, or as the Ricans would say “en la Isla.” The sound of Salsa music filled the air as people waited inside for their food to be ready. The smell of all the food was intoxicating for Amanda. As she inhaled, she felt as though the taste of the alcapurrias and empanadillas were actually dancing across her taste buds. She wanted to ask her grandmother to get something, but she thought better of it, besides there were supposed to go to the supermarket, anyway. She observed all the shops and their windows and although they never changed, the people did. The Puerto Rican flags hung in the windows and doors of the bodegas, the jewelry shop, even the 99 Cent Store.

            “Chi Chi, we need to go to the 99 Cent Store to go get some cleaning stuff for my apartment, so hold my hand when we cross the street, okay?”

            “Yes, Tata,” she replied.

            They set off across the street. At six years old, Amanda had a difficult time keeping up with her grandmother. She was not the average Spanish grandmother, by any means. Angela was very tall for a woman, nearly six feet, and she was muscular, and in no way frail. She wasn’t the kind of grandmother you wanted backhanding you. Therefore, crossing the street with such a large woman was not an easy feat, Amanda was practically being dragged across the street as she ran to keep up with the long strides of her grandmother. Amanda gave a sigh of relief when they finally crossed the street and she jumped up onto the sidewalk only too happily and let go of her grandmother’s hand.

They walked into the 99 Cent Store and looked around. The store was constantly filled with people, and the store was as dark as it ever was, as if the tenants paid the light bill for half of the lights or perhaps were too lazy to flip the other switch. Amanda wandered behind her grandmother in the dimly lit store and asked, “Tata, what are we getting here?”

            “I need the orange, wiry looking sponge, remember that one? It’s the one I use to clean my pots and pans,” she told her inquiring granddaughter.

            “Yes,” Amanda giggled, “it looks funny!”

            Amanda went around looking until she found the sponges and grabbed a package of them and brought them over to her grandmother.

            “Next, we need the Mistolin,” Angela said to Amanda.

            Amanda nodded and they walked back into the furthest corner of the store where they kept all of the cleaning supplies, they had past the toys and Amanda was hoping, if she was lucky and well behaved, her grandmother might let her pick out a toy. They arrived to the cleaning products and Amanda selected the bottle with the teal colored liquid.

            “No Chi Chi, the purple one, I only like the purple one,” Angela said smiling at her granddaughter who clearly didn’t know what was the difference, but grabbed the purple one anyway.

Unfortunately, as they walked up to the cash register Angela did not tell Amanda she could grab a toy, but Amanda bit her tongue and did not complain. They paid for their things and continued their trek to the supermarket which was, what felt for Amanda’s little legs, a thousand miles across a concrete desert.

            Once at the supermarket Amanda was quickly able to get the things her grandmother needed. She ran down the aisles, arms full of food and she brought her grandmother’s coveted 3-liter Pepsi bottles, and the holy Vienna finger cookies. Her grandmother got all the baking ingredients they needed since it was tradition to make a bundt cake anytime Amanda had stayed at her apartment.

            Back at Angela’s apartment the smell of cake filled the air, she took the pan out of the oven to let the cake cool, cut two slices and gave a plate to Amanda. Amanda munched happily over the still warm, spongy textured cake. When she was done she ran up to her grandmother and gave her a bear hug, and buried her head into her grandmother’s navel.

            “I love you Tata,” she said sweetly.

            “I love you too, Chi Chi,” Angela replied sweetly.

If you could wake up and be someone else for a day who would you be?

Me?

I’d be the person that doesn’t feel so deeply.

My life experiences are based heavily on how I feel in that moment. Every success in my life, like the one I experienced yesterday is met with incandescent happiness, trembling excitement, tears and gratitude. My setbacks and failures are met with a different set of tears, frustration, overthinking, and over-analyzing exactly where it all went wrong.

See, it’s really soul-shattering work being an empath. When a stressful situation arises, anyone else may simply be able to “let it go” with passive disregard, but not an empath. We begin a very deep dive of over-analyzing to even attempt to understand why something has happened. It is time consuming mental and emotional draining work. But it’s what we know. It’s what I know.

The innate ability I possess to feel not only my feelings, but the feelings of others is most legitimately a blessing. It allows me to connect with so many different and truly understand them. I would never trade it for anything in the world, but if I could take one day to not feel and rest my soul, I would.

The sun begins its daily ritual of dancing across your face, slowly twirling its way past your eyes before gently ceasing on your lips.

You stir and a collection of memories from the night before flood my mind:

The way your lips brushed against my collarbone as if they were painting an exquisite piece of art, how your fingertips traced every inch of my back as though connecting constellations in the stars, and the faint scent of your sweat sending my senses into overdrive.

You smile and we succumb to a morning full of passionate adoration.

“Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they’ve got ambition, and they’ve got talent, as well as just beauty. I’m so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for. I’m so sick of it!” – Jo March, Little Women.

So last night, I went out on a very special date with an incredible person: MYSELF. After a short and frustrating work day, I decided to come home and participate in some self care. I made myself lunch, watched my favorite show and did my nails. As I made myself an early dinner, I laid out all of my options for the evening. I decided to catch a movie.

So after dinner, I dolled myself and went to go watch Little Women. As most of you (as I distinctly remember this being on several required reading lists) probably know that it follows the lives of four sisters. I had never read the book, nor had I seen the original movie, though, so I went into this completely blind and had no idea what I was in for.

What I discovered was a painfully delightful treat. There were so many moments where I laughed, several where I felt the wind completely knocked out of me, and one moment where I let myself fully let go and cry. The film, was beautiful to say the least, and what connected with me the most was Jo and her ambition and love of writing and how that was the underlying driver in the film. After the movie, I was touched, and I felt so inspired that I went down to the waterfront armed with a pen and a journal and began writing.

I promised you all that I would begin to share my own writing, and I promise that as early as today, you’ll begin to see some of my stories or poems begin to crop up. However, the use of my voice and my day to day experiences to empower others, especially women, is always going to be something worth writing about. Last night, instead of waiting for life to happen, I decided to date me, an audacious power move if I should say so myself!

I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere. I want it more than I can tell.”

— Belle.

It’s me again. Probably not what you expected, is it? For one, I have abandoned my previous blog, because as you’ll see (and probably appreciate) this new blog, this chapter in my life, is all about new beginnings.

So an update for those that have been severely out of the loop:

I’m 29 now. I finally boast an Associate’s Degree, I have once again moved out of my mother’s house and moved into my own little apartment with my son. My son is nearing 4 at the end of March and is growing, while not vertically, in intelligence, creativity, and compassion.

For the better part of 2019, I was in my first relationship post being with my son’s father, and while it didn’t last for various reasons, it was what I needed at the time.

While a lot of things have stayed the same, I can’t help but feel that so much has changed. For anyone that might remember 27 began the year of being alone, reveling and getting comfortable with the fact that there will be times where I won’t have a friend to do something with, so to be bold and go it alone. I was successful. I have grown very fond of solo adventures as I feel like I learn more about myself each time I do, and if I were to pick the one thing that has resonated with me the most, is that I am so much stronger than I’ll ever give myself credit for.

27 was also the beginning of my journey of self love. There was so much that I would see in the mirror that was never really there to begin with. I made it my mission to tackle the things that made me uncomfortable, and that brought me to 28.

28 was the year of selfishness, because in order to love your self, you have to make decisions solely based on yourSELF. 28 was the year I realized that certain situations in my life were always going to remain unresolved, and that’s okay. I made my peace with the things that I could not change, and actively participated in the things that I could. I went back to school and graduated, and I moved to regain my independence and further find myself. I also stepped away from toxic relationships, and man, does that do wonders!

So 29… What is 29? 29 is the year for manifesting. 29 is the year to strengthen bonds. 29 is the setup; the setup for the next decade of my life as I prepare for 30 at the end of this year. I am looking at any all opportunities for personal and professional improvement and acting on them, even if it means temporary sacrifices have to be involved. How can I be better for me, for my son, and for anyone that comes along if I’m not willing to put in the work? So I’m claiming all the good that will potentially come out of all this hard work, as if it’s already happened. See, really magical shit starts happening when you positively manifest you dreams. You see them becoming reality, you see positivity around you, and the positive effect you have on others. Among other things that effect on others, is the reason I came back to writing. I noticed that the more I pour my heart out there, the more you all recognize yourselves in me, and our bonds grow deeper.

I recently told someone “if it isn’t a dope, deep connection, I don’t want it.” and while the intent at the time was meant for romance, I realize now, that the same sentiment can be applied to all relationships. The best days, the best nights I’ve ever had were never with acquaintances or “fair-weather friends” but with people who have resonated with me, people whose vibes are just inherently good, people that are simple, people that just love.

At 29, I’m finally getting it, so here’s to the next adventure, I’m glad I have you here for the ride!