The Medicine: The Essential Fall ’18 Seasonal Depression Playlist

I get out of work at half past five and drive home to the hum of traffic and fading sunlight. By the time I get home and fix myself some dinner, the last orange rays of day have slipped under the cover of the horizon. It’s mid November and daylight is well into its yearly hibernation. After dinner I settle at my desk to do some writing. Usually I admire the pines and maple trees out my bedroom window, but it’s pitch black now, and all the green things are hiding. I wasn’t tired before, didn’t have a particularly strenuous day, but suddenly I feel an overwhelming urge to put on sweatpants and lay down, maybe even get into bed. I glance at the clock and notice it’s barely 7pm.

Fall in New England is majestic. The world paints itself in gold and yellows and burning reds that seem impossible to imagine, that make every woodsy backroad feel like a painting. The temperature drops and the afternoon air fills with a certain thick, crisp, sweetness, like fresh apples and fire pits. The year turns the bases and heads into the home stretch, anticipation and excitement building as we race towards holiday season. The change in seasons is palpable, feels like newness and opportunity, reminds us of the grandeur of transition.

But fall in New England is also melancholy. After they make a pit stop at orange and marigold, the leaves speckle brown, throw themselves to the ground, and die. During the daytime, the cool air feels inviting, but at night it grows colder, taunting, isolating. As the calendar races to it’s end, our minds follow, filling with the anxiety of passing time and growing old. The change in seasons is palpable, feels like summertime taken too soon, grieving and unfinished plans.

Seasonal depression is hella real. When the world grows cold and dark, our minds have a habit of following. Some days, as the light outside my window fades, it feels like the light inside of me is fading too. Like I am growing dark and dull, like my sweetness is gone, like all my green things are hiding. Some days, I connect the dots, recognize that the season is taking a toll on me, show myself compassion and say, “I understand.” Other days, I forget, can’t make any meaning out of it, feel baseless and sad without reason, and then feel guilty for being sad.

For me, one of the best (and sometimes only) ways to get through these dips has always been music. “Get through” means different things depending on the day. Sometimes, music is an escape route that lets me drift back into warmth and lightness, motivation and joy. Other days, music allows me to indulge, dive deep into the sadness and flesh it out before resurfacing. Whatever mood I’m in, music helps me cope, feel, breathe, move through the days- especially during those long, cold, lonely ass winter months. Whether you feel like soaking in the emotion, or taking a sip of something new, I’ve got you. If seasonal depression is the ailment, let this playlist be your medicine.

 

When you need a break from the stress:

Chicago Diner- Kota The Friend

Best lyric: “You gonna wanna love somebody, love somebody someday/ cookies in the oven on a Sunday, yuh yuh”

Guys, I am certifiably obsessed with Kota the Friend. The video for “Chicago Diner’ begins with a disclaimer, bold black letters on an all white screen: “GOOD HAIR IS YOUR HAIR.” Later on, during the chorus when Kota raps, “This one’s for the shorty with the good hair,” the words come back to mind, make sense. Kota wants to make sure that everyone feels the love. His music makes that apparent. He is honest, direct, and simplistic, and yet there is something strikingly fresh and tasty about him, he has a strong signature style. “Chicago Diner” is a standout for it’s dope beat and coy, romantic lyrics. Listening to it makes you wanna pay it forward, pass the good vibes along to someone else.

OG Luv Kush p.2- Kaiit

Best lyric: “Can finally say I’m sleeping well at night, don’t need weed singing me a lullaby”

This song is an absolute jam. It’s like the most addicting almost 3 minutes in the world. It just puts me into this jazzy, funky, relaxed, vibing, high off life kinda mood. I can never get enough, always wish it lasted longer. I’ve been playing it on repeat, multiple times a day, dozens of times a week, since I first heard it at the end of the summer. It’s just so fucking cool. And you have to watch the video, too. Kaiit and her friends are dripping in finesse, the kind of crew you wish you were a part of. Her 90s threads, her unbothered demeanor, her silky smooth delivery- she’s the real deal, an undeniable artist. And underneath all the swag are her lyrics. They might sound a bit shallow at first listen, but when you’ve listened 50 times like me, you realize just how relatable they are. She talks about how toxic relationships pull us into bad habits and addiction and jealousy, and how she is finally releasing herself from it all. This song is the jazzy, hip hop infused version of the phrase “boy bye.”

Loving is Easy- Rex Orange County

Best lyric: “Loving is easy, you had me fucked up, it used to be so hard to see”

This tune begins so singsongy and sugary sweet that the first line and it’s bold, blunt use of the word “fucked” catch you completely off guard, makes you shake the fog from your mind and pay closer attention. The song continues along in the same groovy, retro, 70s vibe, sounds kind of like upgraded elevator music or a theme song from an old sitcom. There’s something campy yet addicting about it. The groovy, carefree vibes perfectly showcase the lyrics. They describe a lover looking back at a toxic relationship and realizing how “fucked up” and distant from understanding love it left him, only to discover the lovely, buoyant, pure feeling of healthy love. It makes me want to do the Carlton around my room. Okay… so maybe I’ve already done the Carlton around my room to this…on multiple occasions. Don’t hate, just join in.

I Wish I Missed My Ex- Mahalia

Best lyric: “Everytime the weekend come/ I know that it won’t be long/ till you’re gonna call my phone/ talking like babe come over”

We all have one. Sometimes we have a whole bunch. You know, the person whose name pops up on your phone, and before you even open the text, you know what it’s gonna say: wyd, I miss you, hey, how you been, or my personal favorite, just a kissy face emoji. That old flame that always hits you up, won’t leave you alone, doesn’t seem to get the message that you’re no longer interested. And I mean no shade- I’ve absolutely been that person before, the one who can’t move on, who keeps picking at the scab and preventing herself from healing and moving on.  Mahalia, a dope, creative, energetic up & coming rapper from the UK, perfectly captures the amazing, unlike-any-other-feeling of getting over an ex. This bop of a song is the perfect upbeat celebration of moving on, of relief and possibilities and shedding old skin.

Doubt- Samm Henshaw ft. Wretch 32

Best lyric: “My grandad used to say we could’ve been born left/ Haha, but we alright, yeah”

Mmm, this song fills me up. It relaxes me, lets me rest, nourishes me on days when my soul is hungry. It’s for the days when you’re feeling knocked down, helpless and hopeless. Just a little reminder that “faith won’t pay the bills, but doubt won’t save us all.” Believing in yourself, in this world, in goodness, can be exhausting some days. I like the way the song doesn’t sugarcoat thing and pretend getting through isn’t a struggle.  But giving up and giving in to cynicism sure won’t help make anything better. Samm Henshaw’s throaty, soulful singing, Wretch 32’s witty wordplay, and a steady clap make the song warm and delicious. Sometimes you just have to take a deep breath, throw on a good song, and be thankful for alright.

Thank You- Oompa

Best lyric: “I feel for ya boy, they always want me to dance/ I tell em if the check aint fat as me I really can’t”

If you’re not on to Oompa yet, this song is the perfect place to start, because after discover how incredible her music is, you’re gonna be saying a bigass “THANK YOU” to me for introducing you to her talent. Oompa is a homegrown, Boston bred, certified star. She is THAT WOMAN. She puts her soul into every song, every verse, carries her tribe in her words. She is self proclaimed as  “forever representing the queer, black, orphaned, hood kids and them,” and holds true to that promise. She makes every person, every identity, every part of you feel seen and heard and understood and important and loved. This particular song is from the 617 sessions, a music program that gives local artists a day of free studio time to record and produce a song. It’s upbeat and catchy as hell, and showcases her trademark quick, clever rhymes. “You mean she made this bop in just one day?!” YES MAM. And it’s fire, because that’s just what Oompa does- puts her everything into her art, leaves it all on stage or at the studio, every time.

D’evils- SiR

Best lyric: “Cause life is so much better when we live in slow motion”

Quickest way to take a tropical vacation from the blistering New England cold? Crank your heat up, turn on your brightest fluorescent lamp, throw on some shorts and a tank top, and put this puppy on full volume and fullscreen. This was one of my favorite songs of the spring and summer, so I just had to put it on the playlist for the days when I need it to suck me back into the warm air and tropical drinks. I was lucky enough to go to the TDE Championship Tour twice this past summer- both in Boston and in New York- and got to see SiR croon this smoky, velvety, masterpiece in person. Can you say blessed? This song’s for the days you need to temporarily drift away.

 

For the days you feel like leaning into the mess:

Remember Me- UMI

Best lyric: “Last summer/ We made plans like we would always be/ We said by now that’s we’d have everything and more/ I never thought that we’d be dreaming on our own”

Oooh, this one sneaks up on you. On the first listen through, her sweet, smiling voice tickles your soul, feels soft and warm like an old blanket. It’s only after the second and third listen, when the wistful, longing lyrics sink in, that you realize how melancholy the song is. Umi touches on that type of loneliness that can feel daunting and claw at you, the kind that makes you romanticize about the lovers of seasons past, no matter how unrealistic or irrational it may be. Her singing makes you want to be by someone’s side, find someone special and new to promise your tomorrows to, but acknowledges just how scary it can all be when you’ve had your promises heartbreakingly handed back to you. “You called my name/ When I was afraid/ And now I’m afraid.” Because what’s more beautiful and painful, gorgeous and terrifying, than falling in love?

Movie- Tom Misch

Best lyric: “I hope, that the fire we both made, still burns a little in you/ I wrote to you, every day, did my letters find their way?”

Story time: During my last relationship, a crisis in my boyfriend’s life changed us from seeing each other almost every day, to being in a long distance relationship, literally overnight. When he had to leave, I started keeping a journal to him. I wrote to him, every day. Sometimes full entries, sometimes just little love notes, hellos, I miss yous. My plan was to gift it to him when he came back home- I wanted him to know that despite the distance and pain and chaos, he had still been with me, an important part of my every day. He broke up with me while we were still long distance, before I ever got the chance to give him the journal. It went from a powerful symbol of our bond, to an aching memento of my foolishness and heartbreak. Months later, I dusted it off and wrote one final note- a goodbye letter- and then dropped off a box of his old things to his brother, the journal resting on the top. I have no idea if he ever read it or not.

This song is for bittersweet nostalgia. For those memories that make you smile, just for a moment, before they sink in and you begin to feel the painful churn. For the days that you don’t want to relive- life has moved forward, it would be silly, harmful to try to go back- but that you just want to be sure really happened.

Green Eyes- Erykah Badu

Best lyric: It’s a tie between “Before I heal it’s gonna be a while/ I know it’s gonna be a while chile” and “I can’t leave it’s too late/ I can’t leave it’s too late/ I can’t leave it’s too late/ I can’t leave it’s too late.”

“Green Eyes” begins in the style of a jazz standard, with Miss Badu referencing her famous green eyes with the facetious, playful comment that their color is due to her eating a lot of vegetables, and has “nothing to do with your new friend.” About two minutes into the song, the playful, flippant melody twists, disappears, and then reemerges: still jazz infused, yet much more slow and sauntering, pain laden. The second wave of the song begins with the bold, honest exclamation: “I’m insecure.” As Badu continues on, she peels back the protective surface of her pride and exposes her intense vulnerability. She croons about her lack of self control and indecisiveness, her embarrassment and pain, over strong piano chords and soft flute notes, At five minutes the tune takes another turn and re-introduces itself once more. her desperation emphasized by begging words and pleading horns. The song is a tragic examination of insecurity and loss of self. The song ends with harsh realization as Badu admits to herself, her voice breaking: “I know our love will never be the same/ But I can’t stand these growing pains”.

Letter to My Ex- Kota The Friend

Best lyric: “I’m sorry for everything, Ima cut the excuses/ but overall I’m just happy you made it past the abusive shit I was doing/ before I even knew it, I was going through it myself/ hurt people hurt people, you should know that yourself/ just know that it wasn’t that you/ wasn’t lacking or nothing.”

Another one of my favorites of Kota, (and it’s hard to pick because they’re all jams), is “Letter to my Ex.” While the title might leave you expecting pettiness and disses, it’s in actuality a stirring, vulnerable string of candid reflections and apologies. Kota admits to his shortcomings, reassures his ex that their failed relationship does not mean she is a failure, and genuinely roots for her success. This song is really important to me because we bring so much toxic energy into our lives by holding on to hate, especially for relationships from our past. One of the clearest paths to relief and healing is through taking accountability, letting go of resentments, and clearing space in your life your something new and healthy and shining. Kota models it for me with tranquil delivery and inspiring integrity.

 

When you’re somewhere in the middle- just trying to make sense:

I Owe You Nothing- Seinabo Sey

Best Lyric: “See, these aren’t tears, this is the ocean/ These aren’t fears, this is devotion”

I was first introduced to Seinabo Sey when my good friend and music buddy Jose sent me her song “Younger” in the fall of 2016. When Trump was elected president soon after, the song became the soundtrack to my resistance- her words felt like a call to arms. When I got my heart broken last spring, her song “Still” craddled me until I felt ready to stand on my own again. A few months ago, “I owe you nothing” came up randomly in a playlist I was listening to on youtube. Her familiar, confident voice caught my attention immediately, and the lyrics riled me right up, lit a fire under my ass. The production is demanding and direct, complimenting the straightforward, take-me-as-I-am-or-gtfo lyrics. Seinabo Sey sings with a certain, distinct assuredness that consistently fills me with empowerment, worth, and purpose.

Girls Need Love- Summer Walker

Best lyric: “I just need some dick, I just need some love/ Tired of fucking with these lames, I just need a thug”

The stretch from fall into winter is officially cuffing season. For those of you who live under a rock and are unfamiliar with the term, here’s a quick definition from urban dictionary: “During the Fall and Winter months people who would normally rather be single or promiscuous find themselves along with the rest of the world desiring to be “cuffed” or tied down by a serious relationship. The cold weather and prolonged indoor activity causes singles to become lonely and desperate to be cuffed.” This slow, sauntering tune from Summer Walker is the song we all need right now. It’s sexy and intoxicating, makes you want to be tangled up in someone’s limbs. It’s also an anthem for female sexuality. It unapologetically reminds us that women have wants and needs to, challenges the notion that we aren’t allowed to voice them. It’s a sultry and sensual soundtrack of desire, and I can’t get enough.

Why Don’t You- Cleo Sol

Best lyric: “Sometimes we fall in love/ love is always in us.”

“Why don’t you just let go?” Cleo croons over sparse piano chords and steady percussion. As the song progresses, the melody is padded by haunting, harmonizing background vocals, bursting strings, and soft flutes. The song continues it’s tiptoeing, steady expansion and begins to fill with instruments and singing, the soundscape stretching to fill all of the crevices of your eardrums. The song builds but never breaks, just slowly settles and approaches to a close with the touching refrain, “sometimes we fall in love, love is always in us.” Something about the silky, soulful track just sticks to you- you crave more when it’s finished.

HËÂT RŌČK- Tobe Nwigwe 

Best lyric: “I ain’t gon wait till the beat drop/ Imma get it while it’s warming, start to form this heat rock.”

GET. ON. THIS. WAVE. Stop what you’re doing. Right now. Cmon, I mean it. I’m only asking for 3 minutes. That’s all you need to be taken on the beautiful journey that is Tobe Nwigwe. The Originals is the name of his collection of songs and videos, which are updated weekly. His music videos are demanding and refreshing, innventive and provocative. While the songs are standalone works of art, you can’t not watch the videos too. You just have to. In them you’ll see Tobe flanked by his partners in musical expression, his wife, Fat, and his producer, Nell. The three dance in synchronicity and in juxtaposition, complementing one another with their artistry and choreography and voices. Each video has a subtle color theme. His videos, like his music, is cerebral, thought out, meticulous. Tobe’s thick, gravelly, commanding voice enters the song before you’re even ready: “I ain’t gon wait till the beat drop/ Imma get it while it’s warming, start to form this heat rock.” He doesn’t care for your expectations, a point he makes clear again later on in the song when he says “I’m done bring the chorus back in…but ain’t no chorus though.” A minute later, Tobe throws a chorus in, “for the haters who be big mad.” He doesn’t care for your rules. And thank god, because his way of doing things is pretty fucking dope.

Violet- Daniel Caesar

Best lyric: “You’re my violet, in the goddamn sun”

You know I can’t do a playlist and not include Daniel Caesar. He is one of my favorite R&B singers to come out of the last five years. His voice is angelic, fluctuates from demanding yells to falsetto whispers, just rushes right into you. What most defines his music for me is it’s intimacy. Whether he is waxing about the rush of physical pleasure, or pleading with his universe to give him spiritual clarity, or waning about his admiration for his lover, you feel like you are being invited into his innermost thoughts, wishes, and desires. Add onto that his mesmerizing, sexy, sucks-you-right-in production, and you’re instantly hooked. His album Freudian might be the best album on 2017, though it’s gained more traction and popularity in the last year. If you haven’t heard it yet, stop what you’re doing and go listen through now, front to back- it’s worth it. For those of you that are already familiar with Daniel Caeser, this track, “Violet,” is a stunning throwback and love song to himself. It showcases what have become signature traits of his particular, peculiar, stimulating style of R&B: repeated, poetic lyrics enveloped in increasingly layered and nuanced beats and instrumentation. I also love the alternative, gospel infused into in this video. Issa whole, dreamy vibe.

Stan- 6lack

Best lyric: “People go through life not knowing/ not knowing what love is.”

Man, I love me some 6lack. (It’s pronounced “black”, btw). I fell for his debut album Free 6lack back in 2016, found myself enchanted by the way his grungy voice blends singing and rapping, and intoxicated by his sexy, melancholic beats. I’ve been smitten ever since. His sophomore album, East Atlanta Love Letter, came out in mid-September and does not disappoint. It’s hard to pick a favorite track on the album. There’s “Disconnect,” a piano laced breakup song is filled with static- literally- mimicking the confusing fuzziness of trying to navigate a toxic relationship. “Love is not looking over shoulders”. And then there’s the title track, “East Atlanta Love Letter,” where 6lack teams up with fellow Zone 6 native Future to deliver the perfect soundtrack for late night drives and contemplating your next move. But my favorite of them all is “Stan.” It’s is a slow, steady, lovely ode to the kind of relationship that grows old. I love the way the 6lack’s production warps and winds over simple, repetitive beats. It’s my favorite track on the album. It moves slowly and deliberately, spins tranquil and reliable, just like love.

Pretty Little Fears- J Cole and 6lack

Best lyric: J Cole’s entire verse

I love 6lack, but this one’s on here for the J. Cole feature. It’s the most sensitive, romantic verse I’ve ever heard from J Cole, and perhaps one of my favorites from him of all time, which is saying a lot, cuz I have one of homie’s songs tattooed on my body. “You plant a seed to grow some roots, a branch and leaves/ becomes a tree of life until our nights are filled/ with peace from stress and strife/ and that’s the blessing that I get from wifing you” The whole damn thing is love letter, anniversary card, wedding vows worthy- ya gotta listen.

 

The most unbelievable 36 hours of my life (Seriously, you’re not gonna believe this)

After a summer abroad, I am finally back home in Boston. To be more specific, I am writing this from my best friend’s couch in Dorchester while catching up on reality TV and eating cold Chinese food- a truly American welcome home. I have so much to share about my time away, so many feelings to hash out, so many love stories to write about the mesmerizing city of Istanbul, so many anecdotes to share about my beautiful friends, new and old. But not yet. Those will come in time. For now, I just want to talk about the last 36 hours of my trip while they’re poignant in my mind, because wow. I had the most topsy-turvy, up and down (and then up and down and up again), absurd day and a half of my life. I’m telling you, guys- you cannot make this shit up. 

On a Monday in late August I enjoyed my last day is Istanbul. I spent it saying goodbye to a city I’ve grown to love, alongside friends who I love even more. We ate delicious homemade menemen for breakfast, took a ferry down the Bosphorus, explored an ancient Ottoman burial ground, drank tea and chowed on gozleme, watched the sunset from atop the city while sucking down stuffed mussels and cold drinks, smoked shisha on a beautiful cobblestone alleyway, laughed and ate and drank and I tried not to cry. It was perfect. When we got back to the airbnb around 2:30am, my cute drunk friends fell asleep and I packed, wrote goodbye letters, and took in the city one last time from their porch. At 5am I woke up my best friend Shelby, she walked me to my taxi and said goodbye, and I tried not to freak out too much on the ride to the airport. The sun was just beginning to rise and I watched it paint Istanbul in gold one last time as I kissed the summer goodbye on both cheeks.

(Sidenote: My first weekend away, my purse was stolen and my cell phone subsequently swiped. Whoops! All of the pictures in this blog are courtesy of friends who traveled with me, or in the same places as me at different times)

Photo of Istanbul courtesy of Greg Sutton – Insta: @decountrified Blog: www.decountrified.com

My flight to Lisbon was at 7:30am, where I would have a 24 hour layover before my flight home to Boston on Wednesday morning. I figured I would sleep on the plane and be rested enough for a nice afternoon of exploring Lisbon. I tried and failed miserably. By around noon local time on Tuesday I arrived at my hostel, hungry and halfway delirious. My plan was simple- shower, nap, explore, eat some nice food, and get some sleep for my flight home. But when I went to check in, the kind woman at the front desk informed me check in wasn’t until later that afternoon. I could leave my things, but would have to wait to shower and nap.

Running on fumes and coffee grinds, I left my suitcase and set out to explore. About a hundred yards from my hostel, there was a small gathering of tree-shaded stone benches overlooking the Tagus River. I climbed the cobblestone hill to the benches, sat down and admired the water moving beneath the sun like glitter. The view was breathtaking and the perfect backdrop for tourists in search of an instagram-worthy selfie, and I sat and people watched as visitors from all over the world flooded in and out. The constant influx of foreigners also made it the perfect spot for young Portuguese street boys to peddle their products. In Portugal, as part of a radical drug policy seeking to combat a growing opioid crisis, all drugs are decriminalized. (It’s been incredibly successful, in case you’re wondering.) And so every couple of blocks there is a smattering of teenagers and young men not so subtly selling them to you. In my thirty or so minutes of hanging at the park, I was offered weed a half dozen times in a half dozen different ways and politely declined each time. I chatted with the boys a bit- many were about the same age as the teenagers I had just spent a summer working with, and the counselor in me wanted to check in and make sure they were doing okay- and quickly earned a spot on their good side. Since the park was right by my hostel I passed by it often, and we exchanged friendly hellos each time.

Photos of Portugal courtesy of Colleen Crilley – Instagram:@colleen_crilley

After some writing and people watching, I realized I was starving and wandered off to find some food. I stumbled upon an outrageously delicious lunch of fried pork belly and clams, and walked it off with some more exploring. Finally, I returned to the hostel for a much needed shower. Afterwards I felt clean and new, but I was still running on about an hour of airplane sleep and exhausted. I was unsure what to do with my night, and so I signed up for a hostel group dinner at 8:30 so I could enjoy some cheap food and maybe make some new friends. It was around 4pm and I thought about maybe taking a nap, but got worried that I wouldn’t wake up, especially since I was without cell phone and hence had no alarm. One of my biggest regrets in my travel life is a night in Santiago, Chile where I went to take a nap before going out and didn’t wake up until the next morning. I wasn’t gonna let that happen again. And so I did the only logical thing- I set out to find some more coffee so I could use caffeine to keep my heavy eyes open.

I wandered a few blocks from the hostel to a cafe that had caught my attention earlier in the day with its delicious looking pastries. I walked in and as I was perusing the counters for the perfect afternoon treat, the man behind the counter asked if I needed any help in broken English. Still captivated by the beautiful food, I asked for a coffee and some assistance picking the perfect snack, and the barista recommended some giant, vanilla custard filled, sugar encrusted, puff thingy. I was sold, and when I looked up to thank him for the dope rec, I noticed that he was cute. Like, really cute. He was tall and lean with tan olive skin with oil-dark hair. He had a matching black beard and a striking skull and flower tattoo on his left forearm, a sneaky tragus piercing, and this goofy, enchanting little smile. As he rang up my order, he asked my name and where I was from, and told me he was trying to learn English. We exchanged some small talk and when it was time to pay, I wanted to buy something else just to stay and talk to him longer. But I was overtired and uncouth, and so I took my things and left.

As soon as I walked out of the cafe, I regretted it. Cmon, Sarah! He was chatting you up and saying he wanted to work on his English- that was the perfect alley oop to ask him to hangout! After all, I was only in Lisbon for one night, what did I possibly have to lose? As I walked back to the park, I cursed myself for being so lame. I sat down on the stone benches beside Adilson, one of the street boys who I had befriended earlier that morning, and shared my pastry with him. Adilson was more man than boy, probably somewhere in his late twenties, and had crutches, a slight tick, and an easygoing smile. I sat facing one direction, admiring how the afternoon sun sparkled off of the river, and Adilson sat facing the opposite way, eying all of the tourists spilling in from the side streets- his potential customers. I watched him work. He seemed to be in charge, knew all of the locals, dapped everyone up who came in and out of the park, conducted the other boys and young men from his post. He had hustle, and had to respect it.

After sitting beside Adilson for awhile, I decided that I had to get my hustle on, too. If I wanted something, I had to make it happen. My 24 hours in Portugal would be what I made it, nothing more and nothing less. And so I devised a sleep deprived, sugar fueled plan: I would get in on the drug game, sell as much product as I could in 24 hours, and go home filfthy rich!!! JUST KIDDING MOM & DAD. No, my plan was better. I had wanted to get some postcards, and there was a shop I could grab them from right by the cafe with the handsome man. I would go get my souvenirs and casually stop in the cafe on the way back to the hostel, where I would buy some random little cheap treat, holler at the cute cafe man, and read the vibe. If it felt like he was flirting back, I would ask him out. Boom. Perfect. Foolproof! I gave myself a little pep talk, said goodbye to my drug dealer buddy, and headed out.

As I was wandering down the cobblestone streets to the square to get postcards, I heard someone call my name. Considering I was in Lisbon and knew no one, I figured it was another Sarah and kept walking. But then I heard it again, and again. I turned around…and it was the cute cafe man! He had seen me walk by the cafe and followed me outside, trailing me for half a block before getting my attention. When he caught up, he simply said, ‘come sit!” and turned around, motioning for me to follow him back to the cafe. I stumbled along behind him, equal parts delighted and dumbfounded. Had this beautiful foreign cafe man, the one who I had planned to go back and work up the courage to ask out, really come out of the cafe to chase me down the street? Was I in the Lizzie McGuire movie?

He sat me down at a table in front of the cafe and started bringing over assorted cookies and croissants. “We’re closing soon, and we have so much food left. Try these, they’re on me. Would you like some fresh squeezed orange juice?” I sat there in shock and nibbled at the food, trying to figure out what was happening. When I asked his name to thank him, he replied Paulo, and I realized I was literally living the Lizzie McGuire movie. (Quick refresher- Paolo is the name of the cute Italian pop star who courts Hilary Duff in the classic romcom. Unreal coincidence, amirite?! Except that my Paulo was a cafe manager, not a pop star, and Brazilian instead of Italian. Just as dope in my book!) As he cleaned up and prepared for closing, we chatted about his roots back in Brazil, how he had moved to Portugal a few years ago with his brother, about his love of cooking and baking. He asked me about my travels, how I was liking Lisbon, and how long I would be around for. Shit, this is going well, I kept thinking to myself, and he’s giving me free food- he’s def into it!

My assumptions were affirmed when Paulo and the only other person working had a spirited exchange in Portuguese. His counterpart, Sergio, was a middle aged, chubby Portuguese man with a lazy eye and slight creepy uncle vibes. (I know- this practically writes itself). Sergio was talking loudly and motioning at me, and when I asked Paulo what he was saying, Paulo blushed. “He says you’re very beautiful, and he says if I don’t go out with you, he will.” I laughed, blew Sergio a kiss, and utilized my one Portuguese word: “Obrigada!” Paulo and Sergio cracked up. Sergio walked over to my table. “So…what are you doing tonight?” As my internal monologue screamed “HELL YEAH, WE OUT HERE!” I pulled it together and offered up a casual, “Well, I’m getting dinner at my hostel, but maybe after that we could hangout?” We discussed a when and where, and then it was settled. My master plan had worked! I was going on a date with the cute cafe man!

By now it was just about 8pm and the cafe was closing. I was going to head back to my hostel for dinner when Paulo intercepted me- “Do you have a few minutes before dinner? I want to show you something.” I had half an hour to kill and figured, why not? Bold Sarah had taken charge.

We said goodbye to Sergio and locked up shop. Suddenly Paulo took me by the hand and whisked me through the backstreets of Lisbon. The whole city was ancient white stone roadways sandwiched between pastel colored apartments, opening up to hilly views of the river on one side and the ocean on the other. It was beautiful. Paulo led me through bustling evening crowds and across busy streets until finally we turned a corner and the road opened up to a small outdoor marketplace and cafe. Behind the cafe tables was a ledge and a drop, and as we got closer, I watched the city reveal itself beneath me. He had taken me to a hilltop lookout to see the sunset. I watched the sprawling city soak in the last few drops of golden day. As my eyes grew big, his smile widened- “You like it?” I loved it. I was straight up swooning. It took a second to process what was happening. This lovely handsome Brazilian cafe man had snatched me out of the street, fed me pastries, and brought me to a local hangout to watch the sunset. Was I dreaming? Could my life be any more like a rom com? Could things possibly get any better? Then he pulled me in close and kissed me. Okay, maybe they could get a little bit better.

An image of the sunset spot, miradouro de são pedro de alcântara, that I found on google

We sat down onto a park bench to watch the sunset and chat. We communicated in a mix of English and Spanish with some Portuguese sprinkled in, talking about family and work and music and food. I was simply too overtired to put in the effort to keep my guard up, and let myself settle into his comfortable and inviting presence. Soon it was almost 8:30, and I needed to get back to the hostel for dinner. We stood up to leave, and he looked at me excitedly. “I know you have dinner plans, but I also had another idea. I was thinking maybe we could go get a few drinks and go dancing?”

Um, HELL YEAH! Anyone who knows me knows that one of my all time favorite activities in the world is drinking and dancing. It was like this man was hand-crafted specifically to meet all of my wants and desires. I immediately decided to bail on dinner. For a second time, Paulo took me by the hand and led me into the heart of Lisbon. After a few minutes of walking, we came to a neighborhood full of open-air bars and restaurants. We ducked into one playing hip hop and ordered a few drinks, and started sipping and swaying. Somewhere along the ride, I had decided to just embrace this ridiculously spontaneous and romantic adventure, and so I was dancing and drinking and enjoying Paulo’s presence as if we had known each other for years. There was something bittersweet yet beautiful about our chance encounter. Knowing it was fleeting made it feel even more magical.

After awhile, we were both growing hungry and set out to find food. Once again I took the backseat as Paulo, the charming and knowledgeable local, led me to the loveliest dinner spot. We cozied up on a soft leather bench and dined on homemade pasta with chicken and shrimp. I threw back garlic like candy and somehow it didn’t deter his kisses one bit. We cheersed glasses of red wine and watched the beautiful, tipsy people wander down the streets outside the open windows. Portuguese pop music spilled out from the speakers, and Paulo and I stood up for an impromptu, mid-dinner dance. Everything was a dream.

After a few more hours of wine and music and romance, Paulo dropped me off safely at my hostel. We made breakfast plans- at his cafe of course- and I went to bed with a smile on my face. A few short hours later, I woke up, still pretty delirious and overtired, checked out, and wheeled my suitcase the few blocks down the street to say goodbye to my cute cafe man. I ducked in and was immediately greeted by Sergio, the creepy uncle, with a hug and sloppy kiss on the cheek. Paulo stood behind him and laughed and apologized, and then greeted me with a hug and kiss of his own that I much preferred. I sat down and enjoyed a coffee and spinach and cheese croissant, and took a famous pasteis de nata for the road. Paulo wouldn’t let me pay for any of it. My time came to head to the airport, and Paulo stepped outside, gave me a squeeze goodbye, and put me in a cab.

On the plane ride home I tried to nap, but I was too worked up. I was sorting through the remnants of a powerful summer, reeling in the romance of my 24 hours in Portugal, and staggering back into an uncertain yet exciting life back home in Boston. I was saturated in transition and couldn’t get my mind to settle into sleep.

7 hours later I landed in Boston, and waited for about twenty minutes for my bag before heading out to the pickup area. I hopped on my laptop and shot a quick message to my step sister who was on her way to get me (remember, no phone), and headed out to the curb to try to find her.

As I posted up with my suitcase and scanned left and right looking for my ride, a man on the crosswalk caught my attention. He was about a fifty feet away from me and something about him felt eerily familiar. As I was eyeing him I noticed that he was staring back at me, too. When he reached the other side of the street he stopped, swiveling his body to face mine. As his face started to slowly register, I began to question my sanity. There was no way. I must just be tired and seeing things. I mouthed his name and he nodded. Nope, no fucking way. I mouthed it one more time to be sure, and he nodded again. I stood in disbelief as he started to walk over towards me.

Only when he hugged me hello and I felt his very real arms wrap around me did it register that it was not an apparition: it was really my ex. The only man I’ve ever loved. The only person who’s ever broken my heart in half. The man who I last saw in the fall, both of us in tears, before tragic circumstances tore him away from me. The man who I vehemently loved through telephone wires for months before he abandoned me and broke my heart without explanation in early spring. (For context: while we were dating, he and his family were facing some serious issues regarding their immigrant status, including potential deportation. It was fucking brutal.) We hadn’t spoken in months, and I honestly didn’t know if he was in this country or another, dead or alive. He had broken up with me, and I was working so hard to move on. I still missed him, still wondered what went wrong, still cried tears over him on occasion. I had both feared and prayed I would never see him again; and here he was.

A big chunk of the why I had gone abroad was to distance myself from the life we had begun creating together. When he broke up with me, he left a stain on my life. My room, my home, my neighborhood, all of Boston felt like it was soaked in memories of him. I wanted to go across the ocean and wash myself clean of him and feel new again. And I had done a pretty decent job- I avoided reaching out, explored new connections, and most importantly, started to finally believe in a new future for myself, one that was beautiful and exciting even without him in it. And yet here he was, waiting outside of the airport, the first familiar face I saw on American soil. The same exact day, same exact time, and same exact terminal as me. What the actual fuck.

We exchanged some small talk as I stood there, dumbfounded. I was half-delirious from lack of sleep, disheveled and disgusting from my days of travel, thrashing in the waves of transition, and in complete shock. He was tall, dark, and well-dressed, in a button down pattern-speckled black shirt, black slacks, and leather shoes. His skin was extra tan from the summer sun, making his smile seem an even more brilliant white than usual. He was asking me about my family, and I asked about his. I told him my dad had gotten married and he passed along his well wishes, he told me his uncle lost his job and I passed along my condolences. He was there for an interview and when I asked if that meant he was doing well, that he was safe and secure, he replied, “es complicado. (it’s complicated).” He asked how my job was going, I told him I didn’t have one, and when he asked what happened, I borrowed his phrase: “it’s complicated.”

As we awkwardly caught up, I tried to remember the words I had composed in my head the hundreds of times I had imagined this conversation. I tried to recall all of the the perfect, poignant things I had planned to say to him, how I was going to call him out, make him understand what he had put me through, finally address all of my unanswered questions. But I was so out of it, so completely caught off guard, that I had trouble registering what was happening and found myself rendered completely useless. All I could muster up was unfiltered honesty: “I feel like my head is going to explode. I feel like I’m going to cry.”

He looked at me and asked, “Por que? (Why?)” He had always had a habit of nervously smiling when he felt uncomfortable or upset, and I watched the familiar forced grin spread across his face. Really, dude? After all of the heartache and pain he had put me through, all he had to offer me was por que, why? As if he didn’t know why I might want to fall apart? As if he wasn’t the one who had caused it?

The rest of the conversation was unremarkable and uncomfortable. We exchanged some more small talk, he gave me more vague and strange answers about his life, we both shuffled in place awkwardly. He said it was good to see me, asked if I had the same number, said we should catch up sometime, that he would finally explain things. It all just sounded like more broken promises to me. I could feel him getting ready to walk away, and a question pushed at my dazed mind and found its way onto my lips. I looked him in the eyes: “Are you happy?”

He stared at me. “De verdad? (For real?)” I nodded. He shook his head, “No.” His pristine white smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes grew hollow. “Mi vida es muy difícil y complicada ahora. Pero esta bien, es normal. (My life is very difficult and complicated now. But it’s okay, that’s normal.).” I knew he was telling the truth, and as much as he had put me through, his pain still scalded me. I thought back to the days when I had been his respite, his refuge from the chaos, and wondered if he even had a safe place anymore.

But those time were long gone. I had tried to build a shelter of my love to keep him safe and warm, and he had knocked it down. He had pushed me away, over and over again. He refused to let me in. He wouldn’t accept my love, didn’t know how to. And how could he when he was having trouble loving life, loving himself? As he stood in front of me, tall, dark and handsome, dressed to the nines and smiling, still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, I peered past the facade and saw the broken down soul hiding underneath and felt deeply, intensely sad. But it wasn’t my job to take care of him anymore. You can’t help someone who won’t let you. You can’t reach out and hold a closed hand. The man I had loved, the only man I have ever loved, wasn’t there anymore.

I looked up at him, put my hand on his arm, and replied. “Espero que un dia, no es normal. (I hope that one day, it’s not normal.)” I meant it. He thanked me, and said he had to go. We hugged goodbye, he kissed me on the cheek, and he walked away and didn’t look back.

I stood there dumbfounded and watched him go. I still couldn’t fathom what had just happened. Then the trembling in my cheeks started, and I could feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of my eyes. I wheeled my suitcase inside, sat down on a bench, and rerouted all of the energy in my body towards sucking the tears back in. Not here, not now, not in my first minutes home, not after such a beautiful summer, not after how much progress I had made. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love to cry, how healthy and cathartic I find it to be. But I was not going to give him these tears, he had already gotten more than he deserved. A few escaped and I wiped them away, took a deep breath in, and walked back out to find my ride.

************************************************************

At first, running into my ex felt like a giant slap in the face. I was angry, incredulous, upset at the universe. How could this be happening? How could he be there, literally the second I got home, waiting to destroy my life all over again? What did I do to deserve this? When would the wound ever heal if it kept being ripped open? How the hell would I ever move on?

I kind of despise the phrase “everything happens for a reason” because I think it dilutes human experience. I don’t like the idea that pain and suffering and loss and hurt are reasonable things- I don’t think that they are meant to be understood, explained, puzzled into some master plan. But I do believe in synchronicity, the idea of meaningful coincidences. My ex showing up on the exact same day, at the exact same time, and at the exact same terminal as me was just too much of a coincidence to not have purpose. I just had to figure out what the hell the purpose was.

It’s been about a month since seeing him, and I’m doing okay. I have not broken in half or spontaneously combusted like I thought I would. Since the breakup, my typical response to an interaction with him has been a significant mental dip. I would nosedive into sadness and hopelessness for a few days or weeks, feel like I’d made no progress, and then slowly resurface.

When I got home from the airport that morning, I sat on my friend’s couch (yup, that same couch in Dorchester- I frequent it) and braced myself for the dip. For the tears and self doubt and depression fog that would encompass me. But as I sat and waited, it didn’t come. I felt a lot of things- confusion, shock, empathy, pity. But I also felt some things I had not felt in awhile- relief and clarity. The person I had been holding out for, the love I had been praying would rekindle someday, the fantasy fairytale of a future life with him that still consumed the corners of my mind, simply didn’t exist. I knew because I had looked into his eyes point blank, and even though it looked like him, and talked like him, he wasn’t in there anymore. It was like I was talking to a shell of my former lover. He used to light up my world, but the light wasn’t even on anymore. All that was left of the fire was ashes.

With some time and space, and some help processing with loved ones, I’m coming to think that him being there might not have been the utter catastrophe it initially felt like, but in actuality, an incredible gift. Seeing him in the state he was in was a huge reality check. And maybe it was also the closure I’ve been asking for for so long. I finally got the goodbye I had been begging for.

And something else- the timing of it all, the bizarre and perfect sequence of uncanny events- that shit doesn’t happen by accident. My religious and spiritual beliefs are complicated, but I do believe that there is a power much greater than me working in my life. Whether god or karma or the universe, someone or something was looking out for me. If I hadn’t had such an idyllic escapade with Paulo, I don’t think I would have been able to survive seeing my ex. My spontaneous, romantic, magical night in Lisbon gave me just enough hope and armor to face my heartbreak without crumbling. It reminded me of the excitement of my future just in time to face my past. The juxtaposition of the two is entirely unbelievably and utterly surreal. My life has never felt more like a Lifetime movie. If it didn’t all happen to me, I wouldn’t believe it was real.

All of this does not mean I’m magically “fixed”. Healing is not linear. I still grieve the loss of him. On top of that, I’m definitely a bit jaded now- what I went through was pretty emotionally scarring. I’m hopeful that I’ll get the chance to love someone again someday, and yet I’m well aware of how terrifying it will be. I still don’t have answers, but I’m coming to realize that the details don’t really matter. Regardless of the circumstances, he is unable to love me in a healthy way anymore. We had something magical, and it is gone. But I deserve magic again and nothing less.

Like I said, I have not dipped like I thought I would. Instead, something strange is happening- I’ve actually been feeling kind of great. I’ve felt out of control of my urges and emotions for awhile now, but I’m starting to feel back in the driver’s seat. It’s the best sensation, like feeling is coming back into your fingertips after they’ve been frozen and numb for months. And on top of that, this new sense of hope is washing over me. For the first time in a long fucking time, I feel like the universe is on my side. I’m far from where I want to be, and still have a lot to work out personally, professionally, emotionally, financially, but the little voice who always used to tell me I could do it is finally reemerging. It has been dormant for so long, and damn, it feels good to have it back.

So yeah- what an outrageously surreal thirty six hours of my life, huh? I told you, you can’t make this shit up. I doubt the next chapter will be as exciting, but I’m finally feeling ready to start writing it.

Photo courtesy of my French friend Louis

Bus Ride Revelations

I think by now that most of you are familiar with how awful and stressful my last job became, and how I was driven out for being passionate. (In case you missed it- Prison (Mis)Treatment: An Inside View). Despite how heinous my company and work environment were, I truly loved the work I got to do with my clients. The part I miss most about my old job is the individual counseling sessions. These hour long meetings, conducted a few times a day, provided me much needed respite and gave me purpose.

Most of my friends are familiar with my penchant for heart to hearts, and I often joked that I had found a way to turn my favorite pastime into a career. But the sessions I conducted at work were so much more than just quality conversations; they were tiny, powerful steps towards healing. The men I worked with in prison had deeply-seated, complex traumas, wounds often older than me, and creating a nurturing space where they felt comfortable sharing is one of the proudest accomplishments of my life thus far. When they would open up to me in session, it felt like I was uncovering buried treasure. I felt blessed to be privy to their hearts and minds in such an unguarded and rare way.

I’ll never forget what one of my first clients told me in our last session together: “When I’m here in session, just for like one hour, I actually feel like a human. Thanks.” Or another, who was releasing and endearingly asked me to be his psychiatrist on the outside. He had never talked to someone professionally before, and he had worked up the courage to open up to me. After explaining to him that I, a) wasn’t a psychiatrist, and, b) couldn’t continue to work with him upon release, he nodded ruefully and added, “well, if you change your mind, I’ll pay you really well.” (I should have snatched that up, huh!) But in all seriousness- the opportunity to be entrusted with the experiences and emotions of my clients, to make them feel understood and human again, was my beautiful oasis in the middle of an anxiety inducing nightmare, the well I drank from to keep going. I miss those counseling sessions, a lot.

And yet, as anyone who works in an emotional capacity with human beings knows, the work is both incredibly meaningful and incredibly draining. When I was given the opportunity to work as a camp counselor in Istanbul this summer, I was honestly thankful for a bit of a break before diving back into more intensive human services. I had been working exclusively with adults for a few years, and I was excited for the energy and wonder of being around teens again. On top of that, at orientation for this camp, one of the Turkish directors told us that the demographic of kids we would be working with would not be your typical teens, but instead mostly from upper class, privileged backgrounds. “Don’t let them get to you,” she cautioned, “they can be very spoiled and entitled.” Privileged was not a word used to describe many, if any, of the clients I had worked with in my career. I figured it would be a nice, simple summer. There would be room to build meaningful relationships with the kids, and space for some good heart to hearts, but nothing too heavy.

And yet, I’ve noticed that I seem to have a propensity for digging deeper, a habit that follows me around regardless of where I am or who I’m interacting with, and a habit that I have no intention of kicking.

————————————————————–

On the bus ride back from a boat cruise on the Bosphorus, an afternoon flanked by sunshine and Turkish pop music, vanilla ice cream coated in pistachio crumbs, Çinar begins to tell me about his family.

Çinar is fourteen years old, a fact that is easy to forget because he speaks with the wisdom and patience of someone twice his age. Contrary to his assured speech, he walks with a slight hesitancy in his footsteps, and has way of hanging on the fringes of things- ultimate frisbee games, dinner tables, conversations. But when you have him one on one, his focus is intense, and he will do anything to hold your attention- even if it means poking, prodding, and annoying you until you want to scream. His eyes are bright and magnetic, black pools of wonder, saturated in unspoken questions. He has the cutest little poof of charcoal-black hair that fringes the top of warm brown face. His smile feels familiar, comfortable, inviting, even when his body language is awkward and unsure.

He tells me that his dad is a Professor at a University similar to the one that the summer camp I’m working for is hosted at, and that he spent the first 8 years of his life living on campus in faculty housing. He says that when he was younger, he had a huge personality- tells me he would talk to everyone, that all the college students knew him by name, would wave hello as he would wander across campus, his own personal playground. “I’m not like that anymore- I’m very shy now,” he admits wistfully. I reply, “but you’re so friendly and easy to talk to!” and he shakes his head, continues, “I usually get along well with adults, but I find it hard to talk to people my age.”

I ask to hear more about his family. It’s one of my go to conversations here, a topic that most kids have something to say about, with a vocabulary that is easy for a non-native English speaker to understand. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Çinar?” He shifts in his seat. “I have a younger sister, she is very sweet. And a brother…” he trails off before the sentence feels ready to end. “Oh cool! Older or younger?” I prod, “What’s he like?”

“Well actually…” he stammers a bit. Çinar has the most adorable, creaky speaking voice that always sounds like it needs to be oiled. He converses with me like a peer, and I almost forget he is still a child, but his little voice cracks remind me of his youth. Usually I find it intoxicatingly cute, but right now, his voice is breaking a bit more than usual. I reposition my body to face him. “We don’t get along,” he finally admits, “actually… I hate my brother.” I frown- not at him, but for him. I can’t stand the word hate, and usually I would challenge it, push back a bit, ask if he really means it. But something tells me not to interrupt, to just let him get it out. I sit back and listen as Çinar tells me about his older brother, who is nine years his senior, an engineering genius, and “a complete douchebag.”(I raise my eyebrows at that word, tell him I’m surprised he knows it, and he blushes, explains “I watch a lot of American TV shows.”) He says that his brother has a quick temper and a hot hand, that he used to always beat him up pretty badly, and that he only speaks to Çinar to remind him that he is stupid and a bother. “But, it is my fault. I was always asking him to play; I should have left him alone. And I am stupid.” 

I remember a workshop on trauma-informed care that I attended years ago while working as a residential counselor, where the presenter offered: “Next time you feel a child is being “attention seeking”, reframe that in your mind to “affection seeking,” and approach the child again through that new lens. They are not malicious. Maybe they just desperately need affection.” I think again about how obnoxious Çinar can get during afternoon field time, and wonder if he just needs some extra love. 

I feel an overwhelming urge to put my hand on Çinar’s shoulder, but hold back, remembering how he reacted when I patted his head earlier on the boat. I reached down and tousled his bangs as I was passing behind him, and I felt his body jolt unexpectedly. “Did I scare you?,” I teased, but his big black eyes looked unsettled, genuinely fearful. “Sarah, can you please not do that?” I crouched down to hear him better amidst the sea of teenagers swimming around us, and he explained that he really didn’t like to be surprised, that his visceral reaction was to hit me, that he was telling me because he didn’t want to swing at me angrily on accident. He spoke with a quiet deliberateness, an insightful understanding of himself. And he meant it- his words were a genuine warning. I apologized, thanked him for telling me, and vowed to not do it again.

As he starts to tell me about his family on the bus, I think about our earlier interaction and feel a gnawing at my heart. I don’t know Çinar’s story, and try not to assume, but the pieces are coming together in an all too familiar way that makes it hard not to. I think about the hundreds of men and boys I’ve counseled who struggle with touch, surprise, people standing behind them, loud noises- usually as the result of trauma. I suddenly wonder what it is that Çinar has been through that has made him such a mature soul, why he has grown up so fast. Who taught you fear?, I wonder, Who placed violence in your bones? 

I hope that I am overreacting, misreading the situation, but my suspicion grows when the conversation turns to his parents. He begins to talk about his father and I ask what he’s like. Again, he takes a quick breath, unsure about whether or not to continue, but decides he will. I am touched that he feels either wild or safe enough to share his life with me, and sincerely hope that it is the latter. “My father…he is very mean.” The words hit me like cold water. What a first word to use to describe your parent. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe my dad, not once, and feel a strong pang of perspective, of privilege, remember how rare and lucky that is. I try not to speculate too much- Çinar is fourteen after all, maybe he’s just exaggerating, dramatic, moody, like we all are at that age. But I can’t shake the feeling that his words carry weight, are the tip of an iceberg much larger than he lets on. He goes on to tell me his father is very angry, that he yells a lot, fights with his older brother often, rarely smiles. I ask what Çinar and the rest of the family do when his brother and father are at odds and he explains that they just try to ignore them. “Well, I used to. Now when they come at me, I don’t ignore them anymore- I fight back.” His eyes turn a deeper, hollow black: “I get very angry sometimes too, and when I do, I just want to hurt someone.”

I glance at his slight body, the way his oversized t-shirt hangs on his bony shoulders, his chubby button nose, his one untied sneaker, the way his long, delicate eyelashes drip over his dark eyes. I think about the way that man takes pleasure in breaking gentle things, like ripping the petals off of a flower, and suddenly I want to cry. I suck a sharp breath in through my nose and tell myself to pull it together before refocusing on Çinar. He is unphased- he already knows the details of this story, is just sharing the facts of his life with me, does so with an air of detachment. Why would he be alarmed at the norm?

Again, I think back to all of my former clients. Think about how cyclical anger and hurt and pain are. Think about how hard it is to break out of the pattern when it’s been bred into you at a young age. They say that the critical period for language development in a child is by the age of five, that speech habits birthed by then are much more likely to be retained later in life. I remark how body language seems to be the same way, how Çinar’s body seems to be fluent in fear and violence learned at far too young an age.

I want so badly to hug the little nugget sitting beside me, but am trying to be mindful of his boundaries, and decide instead wrap him in my words. I tell him how much he amazes me, that he is not stupid, share how much I admire his mind, how impressive his English is. I explain the concept of emotional intelligence, tell him that his oversized heart is far more important than test scores, tell him how much he inspires me to be better me when he goes against the grain, as he often does. When we are playing sports and kids get picked last for the team, Çinar gravitates around them, reading their energy, making sure that they are okay, before returning to the game. When we have a group conversation about religion, he shares boldly that he is an atheist- that he likes the idea of religion, but can’t understand how many people hurt and judge each other in the name of God. When we do an icebreaker about pet peeves and the other kids say friends who don’t text back, or boring classes, Çinar says “ignorance and racism. I can’t stand when people judge other people. It makes me very upset.”

Çinar has a lovely little soul. He is kind, thoughtful, wise, aware, unique. He is also incredibly frustrating and confusing at times. He is, after all, just a child. I wish I could hold him in my arms until my opinions of him seeped into his skin and became his own.

When we pull up to the dorms, he hops of of the bus, gives me a little wave, and heads off to his room. I am feeling introspective, a little bit heavier now, but hope that maybe he felt just a quick moment of lightness. I’ll never know for sure, so I grab hold of his parting smile, fix the image in a frame in my mind, and tell myself that that is enough.

I think back to the warning at orientation about these teens: “Don’t let them get to you,” she cautioned, “they can be very spoiled.” And some are this way- braggart and egocentric, flaunting designer clothes and vacation homes. But they are also teenagers, living on a shifting landscape, in uncertain times. What a terrifying, liberating age. Little people, at the precipice of adulthood, fumbling along, trying to figure out what they want from themselves and from the world around them.

I think about Umut, who talked to me about his love of politics for an hour, who told me he wanted to run for office someday, but quickly followed it with, “but not here- my country is too dangerous. And not in America, because I’m Muslim, so I know no one would vote for me there.” His words struck and deflated me. I think about Mert, who proudly boasted about his hometown in southern Turkey, casually told me about the bullets that come into their kitchen on occasion before moving on to the next talking point.

I think about Çinar’s sweet little face, those wet black eyes. I am reminded how nuanced identity is, how powerful perspective is, how malleable the human heart is, how much I have to learn. I am reminded that these hard conversations, this whole counseling thing, is what I’m good at and what I love, and though the journey back into it will be harrowing, it’s what I’m meant to do. 

On Love and Heartbreak

Perhaps the most universal experience we share as humans is love, and it’s unavoidable partner, heartbreak. We’ve all been there- felt the singing highs of mutual affection, felt the brutal shattering of rejection and loss. And yet the thing about love and heartbreak is that they are somehow simultaneously universal and completely unique. No two hearts look or feel the same. And so when we feel love, or it’s absence, we can sometimes feel very alone, very misunderstood. 

I want to share my story with you in hopes that maybe parts of it will resonate with you, make you feel a little less alone and a little more misunderstood. But to be honest, this is more for me than for you. You see, I have made a habit of speaking and writing my experiences into the world in an effort to stay healthy and sane. Sharing my writing, putting my thoughts on paper, stops them from pinballing around my brain and lets me finally have a moment of peace. People often tell me that it’s “courageous” or “brave” to share my personal highs and lows online, but in actuality, I’m far from brave- I’m really just selfish. My blogging and poetry are my release, my medicine, my therapy.

And so that brings us to the last couple months of my life. As many of my friends and family may have noticed, I have not exactly been my best self lately.  I’ve been a bit distant, a bit absent, a bit shut down, distracted. I’ve been lethargic, detached, unmotivated. I’ve isolated, I’ve been neglecting calls and texts, cancelling plans, making it out and bailing an hour in. I’ve been a bit crumbled and broken down lately, and so I haven’t been the support that so many of you have needed. And for all of that, let me say that I am truly and genuinely so sorry if I’ve let you down lately. Once I get a little better I’m gonna work really hard to be a good friend again.

But for now, finally, let me explain.

I all started about six or seven months ago. I remember that it was sometime in late August, and I was cooking dinner with the back porch door open, letting the breeze and city sounds drift in, and talking to my sister-friend Rivka on the phone. I told her I was thinking about giving dating another shot. You see, I had gone through some pretty hurtful, disappointing, and downright ugly experiences with dating that winter into spring, and had taken a detox from men, spending the summer loving on myself instead. I remember having a really defining moment with her and tearing up on the phone as I told her “Riv, I actually feel really good about myself right now. I think I’m finally ready to meet someone who deserves me.” I was feeling at peace and proud of myself for the first time in a long time, and it was a beautiful feeling.

Three days later, I went on a breakfast date with a guy I had met on Tinder. When he walked in and smiled at me, I felt sick. He was way too beautiful, and I was overwhelmed. When he reached across the table as I ate my meat lover’s omelette and tried to hold my hand, I immediately pulled back. It was so sweet, but I just wasn’t ready yet. After breakfast he walked me home, and when he hugged me goodbye, I think he tried to kiss me, but I gave him cheek. Trust me, the first thought I had when I saw his gorgeous face was how much I wanted to kiss it. But I was terrified. I have a habit of moving too quickly and falling for caricatures of real men, only to be let down. I was not gonna be fooled this time!

And so when he went to kiss me, I gave him cheek because I wanted to get to know his flaws before falling in love with his dimples, his high pitched laugh, and the way he refused to walk out of a door before I did.

And so we went on another date, and then another and another. He kept at it, showering me with affection and attention, lending me his ear when I needed to vent or wanted to boast, offering his chest when the weight of the day made my head feel too heavy and I needed a place to rest.  And yet, I kept at it too- the resisting. I fought back and tried to shut him out, interrogating him every step along the way, looking for chinks in his armor.

He took my demands and questions in stride. He answered all of my totally not appropropriate or PC date conversations with grace, and his responses eased my tensions. His heart had a similar stretch of empathy, a twist of optimism and faith, just like mine. His beautiful smile never wavered as he held me and told me he would always be patient with me, that these things were important to him, too, that he was looking for something real. He told me he wanted a relationship centered upon supporting each others’ dreams. I swooned.

Weeks later, when we were out to dinner and ordering, I remember seeing how the waiter looked at us, how he recognized us as a couple, and how ridiculously giddy that made me. This time when he reached across the table to hold my hand, I kept it there, beaming with pride that out of all of the hands in the world, he was choosing mine to hold.

Soon the days began to blend together, and my life was full of him and his endearing quirks. He would do the dishes when I wasn’t looking, leave love notes on the dresser, make me homemade arepas after my late shift (and then get overdramatically upset when I had already eaten dinner and didn’t have room for them). He would hype me up when I walked out in kicks and a snapback as if I was wearing a ballgown and heels, he would wake me up in the middle of the night just to say hi and pull me closer. Words of affirmation is my love language, and he would drown me in compliments every time he saw me. Dressed in my professional clothes for work? Baby, you’re beautiful. Wearing sweats and a messy bun? Baby, you’re beautiful. Just out of the shower, face blotchy and makeup free? Baby, you’re beautiful. But he didn’t just call me beautiful- he called me smart, and kind, and thoughtful, and caring, with the same frequency and importance. The thing he repeated most was that he loved my heart. He said that it was the most beautiful thing about me. I agree.

One day a few weeks in we went grocery shopping together, and I had a freak out moment and stopped him in the middle of the store and told him I was feeling overwhelmed. I told him that grocery shopping with someone is really casual, and yet felt so intimate. That it was what couples who have been together much longer than us do. He laughed at me and said, “so you don’t want me to buy you food?” Then he kissed me in the aisle, and all of the sudden I was that girl, being kissed in the middle of a grocery store. I felt ridiculous, like someone I would have made fun of before. And yet I also felt invincible, weightless.

All this is to say that I fell in love. I fell so in love, guys- real, genuine, healthy, full, beautiful, rich, total and complete love. With the most amazing man. He walked into my life at a time where I was already feeling great, and yet he made the joy multiply, made it glow in every color, spread out in every direction. He made my world feel so much bigger, boundless, never ending, and yet so intimate and comforting at the same time.

I’ve never been in love before, and I always thought it would feel like a roller coaster ride, this crazy, passionate, unpredictable, topsy-turvy kinda thing. But it wasn’t like that at all- it was the opposite. I realized that I loved him when I noticed that since he had entered my life, I had felt an overwhelming sense of tranquility, calm, and stability. I felt steady. I felt sturdy. I was happy, but more importantly, I had come to expect happiness. I had reached a place where I expected that it was mine to have, and with this expectation came a feeling of worthiness. I deserved this man’s time, affection, and care. Because I had beautiful, meaningful, important love to share with him in return. After a couple of months together, he felt like home, like he had always been there. Loving him was the most beautiful routine.

I’ve been waiting so long to say this. I wish I could have shared this love with all of you. Trust me, all I wanted to do was scream it in the streets, parade him around, showing everyone how lucky I was to have found my person. Everytime someone would casually say “How are you?” in passing, I just wanted to answer, “I’M IN LOVE! How are you?”

But I never really got to feel the joy of being public with my love, because just as we fell in love, our world shifted, and then cracked. Life and timing can be so cruel sometimes. Just days after I felt, for the first time in my life, the bliss of genuinely exchanging the words “I love you” with someone, crisis hit. Something serious and scary happened in my boyfriend’s life and he had to leave, immediately. He came over and cried tears into my arms, and I spent the next night crying tears into my pillow because he was already gone, just like that. Nights turned into weeks. On top of the pain of separation, what was happening in his life was something that made communication near impossible. I spent weeks at a time waiting to hear from him, hoping he was safe, praying he was happy, that life had not stolen that beautiful smile from his face. We spoke sporadically, and he reminded me he loved me, and we talked about a future together and how this would someday be a long forgotten part of our past. The brief interactions gave me a rush and an assurance, but I would soon fall back into darkness and uncertainty. I took a huge dive in my mental health. It just happened to align perfectly with the holiday season, and so Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years felt like punch after punch in the gut. I did not respond well. I struggled with a bout of depression that was pervasive and debilitating and spent as many hours as I could in my bed.

On top of all this, I was dealing with the fact that his situation was not something we were in the position to share. I loved him, and so I honored and respected his privacy and kept it all to myself. I knew people would ask about him, and so I created a story to tell them that was as close to the truth as I could get. But the thing is, I’m a terrible liar, and lying makes me feel awful. I started to harbor a lot of guilt about this, about not being truthful. I still feel pretty terrible about it. And so rather than deal with those feelings, I decided to avoid all of my friends. They couldn’t ask if I never hung out with them, right? I began to avoid everything and everyone. I woke up, cried, went to work, cried on the way home, and crawled into bed. Work kept me busy and distracted, so I stayed late most nights. Home sucked, and weekends were the worst. I isolated and shut down. I hated not being able to be open and share what was going on with people. I didn’t feel like myself.  I didn’t feel like anyone would understand even if I could tell them what was going on. I felt pretty alone.

And so in a few short months, I went from the perhaps the greatest and most at peace I had ever felt, to the most unstable and unhealthy I had ever felt. I was spending each day falling more in love, and yet my heart was beginning to break at the same exact time. What a strange place to live in.

Life sometimes does this twisted, miraculous thing where it hands you extreme joy and extreme pain at the same exact time. They sit in your heart and they don’t blend or mix, one does not negate or balance out the other, they just simply cohabitate. And so from moment to moment, and sometimes even in the exact same second, your heart swells with bliss, and then deflates with despair. It’s wild and difficult and chaotic, and yet so beautifully human.

We spent about three month living in the dark together. My love for him grew stronger and more sure. His for me did the same- until it didn’t anymore. One day, something shifted. I felt it coming. We spoke and he was distant, detached. It felt like I was talking to a stranger. He ended things, plainly, quickly. He left me with a mouthful of questions and a broken heart.

Well, to be honest, my heart is still breaking. Like love, real heartbreak is something that’s new to me. And so I never knew that it is not an all-at-once kind of experience. Unfortunately, heartbreak is a drawn out thing, a slow chipping away, a steady disfiguring. And healing isn’t the least bit linear. Heartbreak is kind of like going through a death, but it’s like you’re the only one that knew them. Something big is missing, and yet there’s no one to mourn with, no one that can understand the loss in the way you do. And like death, you grieve in the most chaotic way. One minute I am in denial, waiting for him to show up at my door. The next I feel a bit relieved, ready to refocus my world on myself and myself only. And then all of the sudden, I am an absolute cliche, curled in the fetal position, listening to “Someone like you” by Adele, sobbing into my comforter. I haven’t gotten to the anger part yet, as much as I want to feel that emotion. My friends are definitely feeling plenty of it for me LOL, but I just don’t know if I’ll ever get there.

I won’t lie- the “what ifs” still eat away at me. I wonder what if I had met him earlier? What if this terrible thing had not happened in his life? What if he comes back? What if we get another chance?  What if he was the one? What if one moment was just a little bit different- could this outcome have been avoided? In another time and another place I think ours could have been one of the most beautiful love stories ever told. And yet another what if that I just can’t stop thinking about, perhaps the most difficult one, is what if I was wrong? What if he had ulterior motives, what if he never even truly loved me? What if it was a lie? The messiness that ensues after a breakup has a way of stealing the joyful moments, making you look back on them with doubt. But I refuse to let the ugly end ruin the lovely beginning. Maybe it’s ignorant bliss, but I think he really did love me at one point, however fleeting it was. 

But the thing is that I can’t keep living in the “what ifs”- I have to learn to accept and appreciate the “what is.”

What is, is that our relationship is over. What is, is that my heart is broken and it is going to be a long and arduous process to heal it. What is, is that I may never get closure, or understand what happened and why he acted like he did. What is, is that he will be my reference point for love for a long time to come, that everyone will be compared to him, and that it will be confusing and difficult to untangle him from my limbs.

But what also is, is that I was truly in love. What also is, is that even if just for a brief moment, I had someone who made me feel totally and completely cherished and cared for, and that I am worthy of no less than that in every relationship moving forward. What is, is that I now know the caliber of man I deserve, the caliber of love I deserve. What is, is that as painful as these past couple months have been, I think, I hope, that they are setting me up and preparing me for something even greater.

I was talking to my cousin/ soul sister Erin about the whole ordeal, and she offered me these words of encouragement:

“You’re stronger than this. This won’t break you. It feels like it did, and I guess in many ways it did. But not the type of broken you can’t come back from. Muscle fibers need to tear in order to grow. That’s what working out is- it’s breaking the muscles so that the body can repair them to become stronger. Through training/stress, we become our best selves. The best writer, lovers, counselors, and human beings tend to be ones that have gone through hell- but made it out the other side. Albeit broken at times, but that’s what made them stronger. Sorry for the cliches love, but they’re the truths.”

And she is so right. I am far from damaged beyond repair. It will take time to heal, but I will get to the other side of this. I was joking with my mom on the phone the other day, and told her, “Well, if all I get from this relationship is a broken heart, improved spanish skills (he spoke spanish btw), and a few good poems, at least I got something out of it!” But all jokes aside, this short and poignant period of my life has already given me so much. As much as it sucks, I do feel like my heart’s a bit larger now, and my mind’s a bit clearer. I do feel more hesitant, but I don’t feel completely jaded. I still have so much love to give.

So, here’s to love and to heartbreak. As awful as heartbreak is, it means that you truly loved something, and wow- what a privilege. What a rare and wonderful thing. And yet I have a sneaking feeling that this is not last time that I will feel the joy of love and the hurt of heartpain. May we all be so lucky.

Where To Start?: 3 Simple Steps for Combating the Stigma of Sexual Assault

About a year ago, I shared a blog post about my experience with sexual assault and rape. (https://chocolatemilkplease.wordpress.com/2016/05/05/calling-it-what-it-is-coming-to-terms-with-my-sexual-assaults/) The post was shared widely among my social circle, and viewed over three thousand times. Up until going public, I had told maybe three people. A few days before posting, I added five to that number by telling my parents and three brothers. In just one day, what was once one of my most private, harbored, painful secrets, suddenly became public knowledge.

I’ll never forget what it felt like hitting “post.” I was in a state of complete panic. I felt like I was breathing through a straw. I was absolutely terrified of how the world would react, and so I closed my computer, silenced my phone, and went to work, eager for the distraction. I was nervous people would leave me once they knew.

Sometimes, when we feel most alone, is actually when life is holding us in the palm of its hand.

When I finally decided to tune back in, I was met with the most overwhelming, humbling, achingly beautiful display of love I’ve ever experienced. People were coming out of the woodwork to read, discuss, thank me, show support, and share their own struggles. The aftermath was something transcendental. For so long, I had been drowning in my secrets. When I told my truth, it felt like finally learning how to swim. I had never felt so liberated, unburdened, light. It was such a supremely healing experience

Now, a year later, looking back, I am still bathing in the warm glow of my support and understanding. When I say it was a healing experience, I do mean it; I feel so much more at peace with this part of myself. However, that’s not to say that I am “healed” of the experience. It still claws at me some nights, steals my oxygen some days, but I do feel better equipped to handle it. And better yet, I’m now in a place where I’m realizing that I don’t have to handle it alone, which is the most magnificent sigh of relief.

But the most massive takeaway that I have had in the wake of this all is that my story of openness, followed by love and support, is unfortunately the exception, and not the rule. And that is largely due to the incredibly toxic and rudimentary way in which sexual assault is understood in our culture.

I’ve spouted these facts all over the place, but that’s because they cannot be shared enough:

1 in 5 women and 1 in 71 men are raped during their lifetime. 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused before reaching the age of 18. 1 in 5 women and 1 in 16 men are sexually assaulted during their college years.

What these numbers mean is that sexual assault, abuse, and rape are heartbreakingly common. Every classroom, office, family gathering, baseball game, movie theater, grocery store, is chock-full of victims of sexual trauma. This truth is uncomfortable and confusing and gritty and ugly and upsetting and scary, and so we shy away from it. Discussing anything sex related is considered taboo, especially sexual assault. Rather than acknowledge this devastating truth, we minimize it. This comes in a plethora of forms, but the most dominant and painful manifestations are ignoring, mocking, and blaming. We pretend it’s not real, make jokes, and point fingers, and in doing so, perpetuate rape culture and silence and isolate those suffering. (I cannot even begin to fathom how rape is still a punchline, that’s a whole other blog.) And so we walk through each day, interacting with our acquaintances, peers, and loved ones, and may never even realize that so, so many of them are carrying this pain in their bones.

So, how do we begin to fix this? Well, I have a few simple ideas, a place to start.

(Let me preface this by saying that I am far from an expert. There are so many people who are much more educated, experienced, and insightful when it comes to the topic of combating rape culture and sexual assault. [Here’s a quick list of some: http://www.shesource.org/news/entry/rape-and-sexual-assault]. This advice comes solely from my thoughts sorting through my experiences, as well as discussing the topic with friends. Take it or leave it as you wish, just please start taking action somewhere.)

If we want to combat rape culture and the harmful stigmas surrounding sexual assault, let us start with three simple principles: 1) creating a space for conversations, 2) offering appropriate and empathetic support to victims, and 3) being mindful of continued support for victims. What do I mean by all of that? Let me break it down a bit further.

1.) We need to create a space for conversation about rape culture and sexual assault.

Sexual assault is not a particularly easy or pleasant subject to talk about. It is a physically and emotionally disgusting, disturbing thing, and it is wildly uncomfortable and upsetting to discuss. But it is also vital to talk about. Because the truth is that it is happening all around us. And so when we avoid talking about it, dilute it, or turn it into a punchline, both as a society and in our own social spheres, we do two incredibly harmful things:

First of all, we waste the opportunity to build education and awareness. Education surrounding consent and rape culture is one of the most powerful preventative measures. By not having the conversations and discussion about this topic, we are ignoring and thus perpetuating the problem. These dialogues are so important, particularly with and amongst young people. This is real and exists and if we do not talk about it with our families and in our schools and in public space, we are not keeping each other safe. If sexual assault is so rampant on college campuses, why are we not sitting our children down to discuss it before they go? Why is it not a required course for all incoming freshman? If rape and childhood sexual assault are so common, why are we not checking in with our loved ones to see if they are doing okay, letting them know that we are here for them if it ever happens, if it ever has happened? Why is every person in a relationship not having conversations with their partner about consent and healthy intimacy? There is no excuse. We must do more.

Secondly, when we don’t have respectful and open conversations about these things, we send a message to sexual assault survivors that it is not okay for them to talk about their experiences. By ignoring or mocking the problem, we unwittingly communicate to them that their most traumatic and painful experience is not respectable, is not appropriate, is not valid. We isolate and shame them, exacerbate their trauma. One of the most unexpected responses to me sharing my blog last year was the amount of people who reached out and shared their stories of sexual trauma with me. Among those who shared, the large majority divulged to me that they had never told anyone before. That was an indescribable experience. I felt so honored to be a safe place for them to share a small piece of their story. I also felt devastated that they had been bearing the burden alone.  We must do a better job helping victims of sexual assault feel able to speak about their experiences. They need a space to feel able to lay down some of that weight.

I was so lucky. I am stupid privileged and blessed to be able to say that telling people was healing. For so many people, opening up about these deeply painful experiences can be retraumatizing, as they are met with blame, disregard, and disbelief. I have a tremendous support system. I have absolutely no idea how or why I am so lucky. We must create these spaces and systems of support for all survivors.

2.) We need to provide appropriate, unconditional, and empathetic support to survivors of sexual trauma.

When we create a safe space for conversation, we take a giant step in the right direction. However, since it is a subject that remains uncomfortable and foreign to many of us, we are often not well equipped to respond to people’s experiences with sexual assault. Part of what keeps us from having the dialogue and asking the questions is that we are afraid to hear the answers. And then, once we hear them, we have no idea what to say. And so, in those crucial moments when someone is at their most raw and vulnerable, we end up attacking them with reactive, inappropriate, unsupportive, and downright hurtful responses.

There is no textbook or “right” way to respond to someone who is sharing with you that they have experienced sexual assault or rape. There are, however, wrong ways to respond. Do not blame them- it is not their fault. Don’t you dare ask them what they were wearing, or how drunk they were, or ask how many times they’ve hooked up before. Those questions feel like you are justifying someone taking advantage of them. Do not shame them- nothing about them is wrong, or sinful, or lacking, or gross or dirty or soiled or ruined because of what someone else did to them. Do not doubt them- you have not an inkling of the courage it took for them to share this with you. When I shared my blog, one of my oldest, closest, soul friends, Kaleigh, shared a few simple and impactful words with me:

“You are not alone.”

“It is not your fault.”

“I believe you.”

Three simple phrases, and yet they mean so much. I will never get sick of them, I can never hear them too many times. They will always help me feel just a tiny bit more at ease, understood, accepted. If someone you know or love is struggling with the effects of sexual assault or abuse or rape, and you don’t have a clue how to respond or what to say, this is a great place to start. “I love you” and “you are worthy of love” are nice to hear, too. Being taken advantage of often makes you fearful that you are unloveable and unworthy. Reminders that is untrue are helpful. Besides these simple affirmations, know that most of the time we are not even really looking to hear your voice- we are just looking to feel safe sharing ours. Much of the time, all you need to do is provide the ears and listen.

(Sidenote: Outside of being one of my dearest friends, Kaleigh is also an inspiring blogger and courageous sexual assault survivor, and wrote a shatteringly beautiful post about the effect of lewd comments on victims. Give her blog a read: http://www.theycallmekiki.com/single-post/2016/11/07/Lewd-Crude-or-offensive-in-a-sexual-way)

Also! I cannot stress enough the importance of getting professional help. While support of loved ones is so important and helpful, the average person is not educated and trained in handling trauma. In addition, it can at times be very overwhelming and heavy to care for someone dealing with sexual assault, and loved ones can experience vicarious trauma effects. Encourage and empower the victim to seek out professional counseling. Sexual assault victims have a greatly increased likelihood of struggling with lethal things such as drug addiction and suicidal ideation. The amount of support they need may range from minimal to drastic. Utilize professional supports, they are a wonderful resource.

3.) We need to improve our understanding of the long term effects of sexual assault, and offer continued support to survivors.

I wanna share a story. A few months back, I was at a buddy’s house hanging with a bunch of my college friends. We were hanging and drinking in the living room when the news came on. The story of the night was some new development in the Brock Turner case. Most of you probably already know the story, but the sparknotes version is that Brock Turner brutally raped an unconscious woman behind a dumpster at Stanford University. (And then was only sentenced to six months in prison. And then was released after only serving three.) Anyway, when the news segment flashed across the screen, my friends, a group of mostly men, began to remark upon it. (Don’t worry, no one said anything offensive! In fact, it was just the opposite.) We all had a discussion about how disturbing the case was, how tragic for the woman, and how unjust and unbelievable it was that Turner wasn’t facing harsher sanctions. It was a productive conversation and made me, as a rape survivor, feel safe and cared for.

Like I said earlier, when I shared my story of sexual assault last year, it was a really liberating experience. It helped me process and heal, and I’m in a really good place with my experience. And so I generally feel open and comfortable talking about it, as it no longer feels raw, the stingers removed.

And yet, despite the fact that I’m in a good place regarding my experience, and that I was participating in a positive conversation, I found myself getting extremely triggered. I had to excuse myself and took space alone out on their back porch. I was getting more worked up by the second, unable to find air or words. The Brock Turner case was really difficult for me because it had a lot of similarities to my experience. I was also taken advantage of while so drunk that I was unconscious, except I was raped in an alleyway rather than behind a dumpster. Watching the whole thing unfold so publicly was both empowering and unbearably painful. It was empowering because I struggled for a long time with feelings of guilt and blame due to my being drunk, and seeing so many people say so resolutely that taking advantage of someone who was drunk was wrong and was rape freed me of a lot of self-hate. It was painful because there was also a slew of people publicly saying the opposite, chastising, picking apart, and blaming the victim. At times it felt like the whole country was talking about me.

And so suddenly, unexpectedly, I was sucked into a dark place. After some time alone, my friend Jeremy came outside looking for me. When he sat down across from me and asked if I was okay, I collapsed even more. I just cried and he reached out and held my hand silently for a few minutes. Then he addressed the elephant in the room- I don’t remember his exact words, but essentially, he said something about how hard it must be to talk about those things with what I’d gone through. Having him acknowledge and label that made my sadness feel validated. He sat there with me and let me cry-ramble some really depressing stuff at him, and just listened and kept holding my hand. In hindsight, I think I was having a bit of an episode, and he just sat there and walked through it with me until I was feeling calm again. It was so unbelievably helpful. (Wow, how amazing is he, right? Again, I dunno what I did to deserve such wonderful humans surrounding me).

All this is to say that dealing with sexual assault isn’t a one time thing. You don’t really ever “get over it,” so to say. For many, it permeates their everyday life. Even for the luckiest of people, the ones who are able to find support and healing, it crops up every now and then. It brings things like fear, depression, distorted self-esteem, and PTSD, and those are things that are constant battles. When you’re triggered, it can evoke serious reactions. Sometimes triggers are things related to your experience, like anniversaries, or intimacy, or parties. Sometimes triggers are random and completely unrelated. Regardless of the cause, they happen. We need to be aware, and gentle, and understanding, help them learn to walk again, no matter how long it takes for them to talk about it, or how many times they seek support. It is not a quick fix; it is a long rehabilitation, full of surprise aches and pains. If we want to truly support victims of sexual assault, we need to continually check in and support them for the long haul.

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Sexual assault is an overwhelming, overpowering, difficult subject. It’s easy to get lost in it all, to feel that the odds are stacked against you, that there’s just no winning. And it’s true- the odds are stacked against us. It is an uphill battle. But we can’t concede. We have to keep fighting the good fight. We need to do something, even if it’s just a little something. Even if it’s just by taking baby steps, by creating safe spaces for conversations, by responding to victims with compassion, by offering continuing support. We have to start somewhere. We have to start.

 

The Scariest Part of Working in a Prison Isn’t the Prisoners

“I’m a substance abuse counselor in a prison.”

It’s always interesting to see how people react when they hear what I do for work. It’s one of the go-to small talk questions, and so most people ask it just to be polite, answer going in one ear and out the other, forgotten by conversation’s end. But when I respond with my job description, people’s ears tend to perk up. After the “wow”s and “so cool”s and “I didn’t expect you to say that”s, the follow up questions come. People have lots of questions about my line of work, but the one that always gets asked without fail is:

“Is it scary?!”

And hidden in those words, the real, underlying comment:

“Those people scare me.”

I have been working in Massachusetts Correctional Institutions for about 4 months now. Every morning I am greeted by brick extending into sky, decorated in barbed wire and punctuated by watch towers. I enter the front door and approach the trap, waiting on an officer to open the large concrete slab door and unveil the metal detector. I hand over my ID and either walk to the next giant locked concrete slab, or get pulled aside into the search room for random, routine body checks. All in all, there are 16 doors I pass through from my car to my office- 7 of which I have control over, and 9 of which must be electronically opened for me through the control of security staff. (It took me a good week to figure out which was which, leading to lots of pulling at locked handles or standing idly in front of open doors). Cell phones are considered contraband and thus remain in the car. I am armed with either a walkie talkie or a body alarm as a means of communication in case of emergency.

And then there is the etiquette. Prison etiquette is not just for the incarcerated- it is for the employees, too. There are certain unwritten rules that you must follow, quirks you must learn if you want to succeed. Make sure that the officers are always happy. (If they want to, they can make your job a living hell. Their support or lack thereof determines how successful your program can be.) DOC rules trump all else. Don’t call anyone a “punk”, it means something different in prison. Don’t throw out fruit in any trash cans the inmates have access to, it can be used to make homebrew. Don’t walk in between bunks when you’re in the unit. Don’t go out on the unit during count or during shift change, that creates a headache for the officers, and remember, you wanna keep them happy. Be careful when discussing any personal matters- the walls have hundreds of ears, hungry for information. Don’t tell your class that they did a “killer job” today, because they will snicker at your adjective choice and make you feel dumb. Always dress in layers, because each unit, phase, office, building, has a different temperature. And the fans are always broken, so if it’s hot, you’re out of luck. Make sure you check the weekly menu for the best lunches- it’s only $1.44 for your salad, soup, main meal and dessert, and prison desserts are outrageously delicious. Especially the chocolate chip cookies and brownies.

It may seem like a lot to remember, but it really doesn’t take that long to acclimate. After a few weeks of trainings and observing, I had the basics down and was ready to embark on the true adventure- working with the inmates. (Sidenote- I don’t particularly like the word “inmate”. I find it dehumanizing, limiting the whole person to their experiences with the criminal justice system. I prefer to call them “incarcerated men.” They may be incarcerated, but it is a temporary adjective describing their current situation. They are still, and most importantly, human beings, men. For the sake of this piece, however, I will refer to them as inmates, because it is what we are asked to refer to them while in the facility.)

My duties are many, but can be boiled down to three central responsibilities: facilitating groups, conducting individual counseling sessions, and working to enforce, maintain, and model a therapeutic community setting. (And, coming in a close fourth, the extensive, meticulous documentation and paperwork attached to these roles). I’m part counselor, part teacher, and part case manager. And despite never really intentionally pursuing substance abuse work, or wanting at all to be any sort of teacher, I find myself really, thoroughly enjoy my job. I have yet to dread going in- in fact, every day there has been something that excites me that I’ve found myself looking forward to. I feel accomplished, useful, and helpful most days while driving home. I’ve only been there 4 months, so I may still be in the honeymoon phase, but I still get excited to walk in through those 16 doors every morning.

Like I said, I really like my job. I do not, however, love it. When I got this job, I told everyone I got my dream job, and I truly thought I had. I’ve wanted to work with incarcerated men for as long as I can remember. But after just two weeks, as I was driving away from the brick and towers and barbed wires, I realized that I was so, so far from my dream. I want to love it, but I just can’t. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully, wholeheartedly love it.

As much as I like my job, there is an ever-present tension in my mind and in my heart. You see, I entered this field because I have this overwhelming passion for prison system reform. I think the system is incredibly broken and in need of a major overhaul. I took a job working behind bars because the best way to learn about something is to experience it. I have been reading prison lit for years, doing research on the formation of the prison industrial complex, dissecting mass incarceration along lines of color, poverty, power, and privilege, studying policy and procedure. And yet, books and articles and numbers can only get you so far- I wanted to see it up close, live and breathe it so that I could better understand it and better define what exactly it is that I want reformed. I took this job for experience, for research, to gather intel. I wanted to work for change from the inside out.

And so I am torn, because even though I am on the rehabilitation side of the road, I am working for the system, and the system is inherently broken. And so I have to constantly remind myself to be careful that I am not perpetuating the broken parts. I’m in this precarious situation where in order to succeed and advance to a point where my voice and my influence has a wider reach, I must perform according to DOC standards, follow all the institution’s rules and regulations. And yet how do I do that when I know that many of those rules are flawed?

Let me get back to the question that I am continually asked when I share what I do: Is it scary?

Yes and no. No, “they” are not scary. For the most part, the inmates are incredibly respectful and polite. Particularly the guys I work with, because to be in the program, (which offers incentives like “goodtime”, aka time off of your sentence) you must meet certain expectations. They greet me with hellos and how are yous, hold open doors, give me space when I walk through the facility, apologize if they swear in my presence, do their best to be attentive during class. Every once in awhile someone in the yard catcalls you or gives you a compliment (they’re not allowed to compliment us at all, or ask anything personal, even down to what my favorite color is), but when you call them out on it, they stop. All this to say- they are human beings. Furthermore, they are human beings under strict supervision and regulations, and subsequently are probably even MORE respectful and appropriate than your typical congregation of men. Sometimes people like to remind me that I’m surrounded by “rapists and killers and felons!” and while it is entirely true that there are men in there who are rapists, who have committed murder and felonies, the fact of the matter is that on the “outside,” in my day to day life, I am constantly surrounded by the threat of violence and sexual advances, but without constant surveillance and security personnel. (I’m sorta being tongue in cheek, but not really).

I don’t mean to trivialize the safety issue- obviously there is a reason I have to pass through a bunch of locked doors to get to my office. Safety is always a factor when working with a high-risk population. Sure I can build rapport with inmates, but I should never get comfortable. These men are facing extreme internal and external pressures, have succumbed to them in the past, and very well may do so again. I have one guy on my caseload in particular who I honestly was a bit nervous to meet with one on one for the first time. He came to me with a pretty ugly attempted murder charge, a history of violence towards women, and multiple warnings from other staff members. I was just a little bit on edge when I walked into our first one on one counseling session.

And yet 10 minutes into our meeting, I began to see his character separate into two entities: the human desperately seeking joy and love, and the human who had administered everything but to his victim. He was not too far gone, not some sociopath or inherently evil man- there was still goodness left in him, it just was retreating and in the shade. He needed to get back in touch with it, give it water and light, grow the good. And yet he was consumed by so much darkness that doing so would be a monumentally challenging task.

It was in my individual counseling sessions, with men like the one just mentioned, that I began to notice a pattern, one universally shared trait that almost each and every one of these men had, the common factor that seemed to have acted as catalyst to their criminal behaviors. What is that secret, delinquent trait, you ask?

Trauma.

Want to know the scariest, most terrifying part of prison?

These people are not the sociopaths or psychos or bad seeds that we label them as. (Because it would be easier if they were, right? More justifiable to put them behind bars, lock them in cages like animals?) I have yet to encounter even one inmate who seems intentionally malicious, inherently evil. Instead, I have come face to face with hundreds of men steeped in decades of pain and trauma, men who have lived and breathed violence, abuse, neglect, and addiction since before they were conscious that these things were bad or wrong or not just normal parts of growing up.

We are warehousing mental illness, criminalizing trauma, and punishing poverty.

Prison isn’t full of criminals, it’s full of individuals suffering from PTSD. Children, born addicted themselves, holding their father down while they convulse in withdrawal. Children watching their mother bloodied and bruised in front of their eyes. Children neglected, left for days without authority or safety, without food or a place to sleep. Children touched in violence and in molestation. Children carrying guns because they have felt bullets whiz by their heads, watched their friends bleed out on the pavement, seen the dark brownish stain that blood leaves.

To survive, they make their own rules, put themselves first, and take advantage of any minuscule opportunity to feed or clothe or further themselves they may see. And so their “norm” is off kilter of cookie-cutter societal standards. They are forced to find maladaptive ways to get by. Their crimes are often not willful or malicious, but in reality trauma-reactive and survival seeking.

If they do survive into adulthood, they have done so by breaking the rules. Because the rules weren’t made for them, anyway, the laws weren’t written with their protection and safety in mind. And so as adults, they continue to follow their own codes of survival, and end up exposing new generations of children into the same danger and threats that malnourished and traumatized them. But many of them know no other way to survive.

And furthermore, it’s not just that they know no other way- it’s that they are given no other options. They are no masochists, they don’t create these self-destructive systems. We do.

We streamline people from birth towards imprisonment or death. We create these systems in which certain demographics are set up for failure, and then we punish them for doing exactly what we masterfully planned- failing. We strip schools of funding and resources, we limit access to healthcare, clean water, healthy food, we use the guise of public safety to target and harass, and then we spread poisonous propaganda that it is all their fault. We create legions of people who are forced to navigate this world in survival mode, and in doing so, end up breaking laws. And then we throw them in prison and punish them not just with the time of their sentence, but with the quality of life during that sentence. Trust me, some of the living situations stimulate relapse into addictive behaviors and criminal thought, exacerbate mental health issues, retraumatize these men. And finally, if they make it back into society, we stamp them with stigma for the rest of their lives.

These factors do not justify or excuse crime. These men still need to be held accountable for their actions, for the way they have forever altered the lives around them. These factors do, however, provide insight and demand empathy. If we ask these men to hold themselves accountable, then we must hold ourselves accountable as well, accountable for the flawed and futile system that we have created, perpetuated, and enabled, and the way it has forever altered the lives touched by it.

These men are in desperate need of treatment, of attention, of support, of connection, of rehabilitation, of one human, two ears, that will actually listen to their story and provide them the resources, teach them the skills, to rebuild and move forward. And yet there is just not room for that in the system- social workers, health care professionals, counselors- are either overworked and underpaid, or not even provided enough funding for their jobs to exist. These men need intensive therapy, a licensed clinician who can see them for at least an hour a week. Instead they’re given me, a passionately invested yet inexperienced and unlicensed counselor who is available for two forty minute sessions a month, if that.

It is not that it’s impossible to prevail and succeed- remember, these men are resourceful and resilient beyond your wildest imagination, their souls unrelenting, hearts elastic, somehow always able to bounce back. But we are setting them up for failure, and then chiding them, convincing them that it’s all their fault.

And that is the scariest, most criminal part of working in a prison.

Desperately Seeking Closure: How To Say Goodbye When Life Won’t Allow It

Whenever I’m feeling really nervous about something, I have trouble sleeping. I wake up over and over again, my mind so anxious that it’ll oversleep that just to be safe, it goes to the other extreme and I don’t sleep at all. Last night I woke up 6 separate times before my alarm went off. You see, about a month ago, I was informed that my job had not received the grant we were expecting. And so, our program was downsizing, significantly. We were dropping from about 120 participant beds to 80, and from 9 staff to 6. It was an unfortunate blow, and being the newest counselor, I was among those being transferred. I was about 3 months into my new job, just hitting the sweet spot with my caseload and coworkers, finally feeling capable, and I was going to have to start all over again.

As most of you who know me are aware of, there is not much in this world I struggle with more than change. I DESPISE transitions, and find myself temporarily physically, emotionally, and mentally handicapped by them. (When I was approaching graduating college, for example, I had night terrors and sleep paralysis for months. Dramatic, I know, but I just couldn’t seem to gain control over it). I’m a ridiculously sentimental person, and I get very attached to my routines and relationships and comforts. And so even though I’d only been at this new job a few months, the idea of transferring to another site, losing my relationships with my coworkers, my rapport with my caseload, was a bit daunting.

Another thing most of you probably know about me is that words and writing are a major destressor of mine. They center me, help calm me down. For the most part, I am a very go with the flow, live in the moment kind of gal. I’m not particularly polished or prepared, and prefer to lead with my heart. But words have always been my gateway to greatness, a way for me to be the best version of myself. And so in an effort to find some clarity and resolve amidst the changes, I concocted a short, concise thank you speech that I would deliver to my coworkers and to the community on my last morning at my current site. I knew that being able to clearly communicate just how much the few months with them had impacted me, to share my gratitude, would help tremendously with my sense of closure and completeness.

On my drive to work, I practiced my little sendoff speech over and over until it felt just right. Then I called my mom, because my momma always calms me down and make me feel confident. We chatted and I admitted to her how nervous I was for my last day, how scared I was of change, and she said she understood, as we had had this conversation every time a major change had come my way. She reminded me to cherish the good and forge ahead, and that, like always, it would be just fine. When I pulled into the prison parking lot, I hung up, put on my coat, took a deep breath, and prepared to kick some ass.

But then, I reached into my coat pocket, and it was empty. I checked the other pocket-empty too. Oh no- the dread crept in- I had left my purse at home. My license, work ID, credit card- I had left it all behind at my apartment. Who cares, it’s just a wallet, right? Well, when you work at a prison, they take security pretty seriously. That means that if you don’t have a photo ID, you ain’t gettin in.

I called my supervisor to see if there was anything I could do, any way to work around it, but my assumptions were true- I had to drive all the way back to Boston to get it. With a 45 minute commute each way, that meant it would take me a good hour and a half to get there and back. That meant I would be missing the entire morning meeting, the one time the community was gathered in one room, and thus, would be missing my opportunity to say the goodbye I had spent all night agonizing over.

Now I know that life could be much, much worse. I know that being late, and not being able to deliver some silly little thank you speech, doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. Oh well, get over it Sarah! But remember, change is my kryptonite, and words are my source of strength. I had been growing more and more anxious by the hour, and the thought of being able to formally, thoughtfully say goodbye was my zen, the thing keeping my nerves, my fears, my emotions at bay. And now, because I was a big giant dumb idiot and left my purse at home, I wouldn’t get a chance to tie the loose ends, there would be no closure.

And so as I drove back home to get my things, I cried (like I said before, I tend to lead with my heart). I called back my mom, but she was at work, and so I called my dad. He picked up and for ten minutes I cried and swore and vented as he sat there and listened and tried to comfort me. He tried to brainstorm solutions, but we both quickly realized that this was one of those times where it sucked but I just had to accept it. After dad, mom called me back and we had the same conversation. More tears, more frustration, the same love and support. “Why today, why out of all the days,” I complained, angry with myself. “Maybe there’s some bigger reason, Sarah,” my mom offered, hopeful. When I was done unloading on her, I hung up and drove with the radio off.

Again, I love words. And by default, that means I love quotes. As I drove in silent anger, a quote that my dad and aunt always say to me popped into my mind. Whenever life seems unfair or unexpected, they take it as a learning experience and offer up the question: “What is the universe teaching me?” In the past, this quote has helped me take some pretty ugly shit and turn it into fertilizer. And so I asked myself, mockingly at first, “What the funk is the world teaching me today?!” That I suck, perhaps? No, that couldn’t be it- or all of it, at least, there had to be something more.

I put the music back on and ruminated on my convos with mom and dad. I get my love of language and passion for goodbyes from my dad, so he had understood exactly how I was feeling. But he is much more rational than me. “I know you prepared a goodbye, Sarah, but they don’t need you to remind them formally in a meeting, I’m sure they already aware how much you care and how invested you are.”

As I continued to drive down, I put the windows down and cooled off a bit. You see, my mind is obnoxiously optimistic, and so it does this thing where it only lets me be grumpy for so long before it starts trying to convince me to see the bright side of things again. “What is the universe teaching me?” I asked myself again, this time seriously, thoughtfully, searching for the silver lining.

And then it hit me, the insight, the lesson that the universe was dropping into my lap.

Change makes me feel out of control, and so I struggle with it. I will always try do everything in my power to tie up all loose ends, to end one chapter before beginning the next, to tidy up the jumbled mess before moving on. I will always try to plan out every little detail to make the transition easier.

But plans are just wishes at the end of the day. Our most meticulous plans are sometimes the silliest jokes that leave the universe laughing at us.

I realize that there will be times in this life where planning is not possible, where I won’t be able to wrap things up in a pretty bow, to get closure, to say thank you, to give a goodbye speech. More often than not, change will come quietly, quickly, unannounced. More often than not, there will not be chances to clean things up, make parting remarks, say goodbyes and thank yous. It’s silly and it’s selfish to think that life will give me that. More often than not, change will be blunt, immediate, unforgiving, painful.

And so, we musn’t wait for our finals days to show gratitude, to say thanks, to communicate that we care. We must live these things. We must, in each interaction with the people and the world around us, communicate exactly what it is that we want to leave behind when change does come. Our message, our legacy, must ring true in our everyday actions, from the grandest gestures to the most minute moments. Your goodbye won’t matter, will hold no weight, if your hello was not inviting, if your “how are yous?” were not sincere.

But this isn’t to say that we must feel the weight of the world in every single daily interaction- no, it’s just the opposite. This is not a realization of added pressure, of burgeoning burden, but of relief. If we live with intention and honesty, then there’s no need to fear change, to fixate on goodbyes. Because if we are living with intention and with honesty, then we have already shared our message. No matter when or how our relationships are cut short, no matter how aggressively change come into our lives, we can rest assured that our message was understood. Like my dad said to me on the phone, it may have been nice to feel control over the situation, to present a goodbye that made me feel resolute and ready to move on, but there really was no need for it, it was just frivolous. I did not need to stand there in front of all of my wonderful coworkers and our impressive community and explicitly tell them I was grateful for them, that I was invested in their success- they already knew it. My actions had shared that story already.

And so when I finally got to work, I tried my best to get a few goodbyes in. Some were good, just as eloquent as I imagined, but most were a bit messy, rushed and all over the place. But even as I said my thank yous, told them I believed in them, I could tell they already knew, that the words were somewhat unnecessary. As much as I selfishly wanted one, I didn’t need a goodbye. They already knew everything I had to say.
And so today, as I embark on the same job, but in a new facility, with new wonderful coworkers and a new impressive community, I will make sure to introduce myself with intention and with honesty, and remind myself that it is not the goodbyes I will be remembered by, but the nature of my hellos.

Failing in the Right Direction: My Love Life (Or Lack Thereof)

So you know how at holiday parties, your extended family just loves to think up the most awkward questions they can and probe you all about your career and love life and everything else in between? And everyone’s favorite well-intentioned but cringe-worthy question seems to be, “so anyone special in your life?”. Well this Christmas, I noticed something kind of odd- no one was asking me these questions. At first, I was pumped. Yay for no awkward small talk! But after awhile I realized something kind of disheartening. It wasn’t just my family who had stopped asking, it was my friends too. I realized that no one, outside of maybe my one or two closest friends, ever asked me about my love life. I wondered why, and then I realized it was probably because after so long with me having nothing to say, they had just given up. Maybe they weren’t asking because they assumed there would be no news. And sadly, they were usually right. Why ask if you already know the answer?

I’ve never been one for small talk, so I’m gonna cut to the chase and get into it: this last year has been a dating disaster. My romantic life is on hurt. To even use the word
“romantic” is a stretch- I honestly haven’t come close to any sort of real romance. When I moved into the city two Septembers ago, I told myself that I was gonna break out of my shell and really go after love. To be transparent, I’ve never really been very successful romantically. I tend to either chase my emotional needs or my physical needs, but never seem to be able to find one lovely man that satiates both. I have a habit of falling in love with my good friends, or falling in lust with strangers. The falling for friends thing hasn’t gone well and instead has just left me sitting uncomfortably in the friendzone while they ask me for advice on the girls they’re dating. The falling in lust with strangers thing also hasn’t worked so well because it’s shallow and leaves me lonely at the end of the day. It’s an awful situation to be in, and since I’m not a masochist, last year I decided that I needed to stop waiting for love to happen to me and take matters into my own hands. You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take, right?

Well, what followed was a year of missed shots. I mean I went for it- I tried to put myself out there, be more forward, let them know how I felt, ask them out- but man, I’ve always been AWFUL at basketball and it seems like the same goes for basketball metaphors. There were just so many misses. First off there was Josh, a handsome nerd with a crude sense of humor who I went on 3 great dates with before being suddenly, inexplicably ghosted. He bought me dinner, told me I was beautiful, kissed me hard against a lamppost outside of the restaurant, and then disappeared, leaving me with my first ever set of trust issues. Then there was Mo, a few years older than me, well traveled and owner of his own business. He was always impeccably dressed and I loved hearing him talk about his ambitions. He told me all the things I wanted, made me feel pretty and interesting, but made no effort to be serious and eventually I realized that the words were empty and too well-practiced to be being said to just me. When he left for a month long romp of Europe and North Africa and the Mediterranean and who knows where else, I used the time and distance to collect my dignity and told him goodbye for good. I’m still not sure if he even noticed.

Next came Ant, a wannabe rapper and producer who I was instantly hooked on when we spent our first hangout sesh talking about Kendrick Lamar for hours. The next time we hung out we drank Hennessy and stayed up all night, reminiscing about our favorite throwback R&B jams and singing along together. When we dueted “Same Girl” by R. Kelly and Usher, I thought he was the dude for me. At first I loved when he would come over and bring his laptop and mixing table, spitting me old songs he had written and showing me new beats he was making. But week after week I would sit and watch him work, sometimes for hours at a time, patiently waiting for him to be more interested in me than finishing the song. But he never was, and I decided I was finished with him. (Well, I wish I was that strong- there was quite a lapse between when I decided to be done with him, and when I was able to actually do it.)

And then there were the silly little flings with friends and coworkers. There was the one who I thought I was into, but then when I tried to spend alone time with him found out that he had zero social skills. He would ignore me whenever I tried to talk to him, and then just laugh at me when he was actually listening. But then he’d keep hitting on me and not realize what was wrong. He was just a bundle of joy! (Psych- he was infuriating). Then there was the one who seemed like an absolute sweetheart, the ultimate nice guy…from a distance. I felt like we had some potential, but he quickly proved me wrong and left me feeling pretty used and disposed of. And then there’s my personal favorite, the guy with the secret life. He hollered at me, showered me in compliments, and asked me out, just to stand me up, make up really weak excuses (got pulled over, got lost, friend’s in the hospital, had to stay late at work, etc) and then protest that it was somehow all my fault. After a few weeks of dealing with this behavior, I asked my guy friend for advice and he said, “Do you want the honest, blunt truth Sarah?” Yup. “He’s playing you. You’re in the rotation, option B or C. You’re never gonna be option A, he’s just gonna keep stringing you along so he knows he has a backup plan.” That was hard to hear, but oh so helpful. I blocked his number and never looked back…except a few weeks later when I saw a picture of him and his GIRLFRIEND on facebook. And shortly after, a photo of their NEWBORN BABY. Homeboy had a girlfriend and a baby, and was still playing games!? I was beside myself. Men like this actually existed? Now, I’ve never been one to believe the stereotypes of men as dogs or players, shout “trust issues”, to doubt people’s intentions or question their authenticity; I believe the best in people. But all of the sudden, I found myself surrounded by these exact people. Where did they come from and how had I let them get in?!

After months of these men selling me fake promises of connection and commitment, I found myself at wit’s end, feeling very defeated, lonely, and hopeless. I laid on the floor of my apartment and told my best friend that I was giving up. Maybe love, marriage, motherhood, just weren’t for me. (Even as I type this, I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds for a 24 year old girl to be giving up on love. That I’m fully aware of. But when there’s a persistent failure to succeed, one arrives at a learned helplessness which, though irrational, sucks you in and is hard to talk yourself out of.) As my frustration and weariness poured out of my eyes, she consoled me and loved on me before gently prodding. “Sarah,” she asked, “out of all these guys you’ve dated and hung out with and been interested in this past year, how many of them can you actually, realistically see yourself dating? How many would get along with your friends and family, shared passions with you, made you feel like you were out of their league instead of the other way around?” As I looked back through all of the guys I had chased after, I could identify only one who sorta fit that criteria. To be honest, none of them were boyfriend material. And it’s not that I’m particularly picky, or that they didn’t have redeeming qualities- it’s that none of them were right for me. I realized that I had been finding little details that I liked- his big family, his taste in music, the way he dressed, his passion for travel, the fact he worked with kids- and completely over-romanticizing what that meant about our potential as a pair. I was constructing a Frankenstein lover; taking my favorite qualities from each guy, overlooking their monstrous flaws, and stitching them all together in this bizarre, unrealistic image of what I thought love was supposed to look like.

I realized I needed to stop falling for the pieces and start look for something a little bit more whole. Now, no one is without their flaws, we are none of us perfect. But, I had been looking past red flag after red flag, forgiving oceans of flaws in favor of one pretty smile or fun fact. I needed to start prioritizing, figure out what qualities really were important to me. If I seriously wanted love, I needed to take love seriously.

Enter Greg. When I met him, I barely gave him a second glance. My initial read on him was that he wasn’t really someone I’d vibe with. He was cute and nice and all, but just not for me. A few weeks later, we had our first real conversation outside of “hey” and “how are you,” and he asked me if I was reading any good books and who my favorite authors were. I immediately perked up- I’m a huge literature nerd, and talking about books is one of my favorite pastimes. As we chatted I found out we had some top authors in common, and shared a love of reading. All of the sudden I was looking at this guy with new eyes- maybe he did have some potential after all.

Now, I was trying to keep the advice my best friend had given me in mind and not paint a whole picture of an amazing man off of one little detail I liked. And so I took my time and got to know him. I asked about his family, his favorite part of his job, what his friends were like, what his tattoos meant, what his dream life would be if money and time and space didn’t matter, who his idols were. He responded with stories of his sisters, silly anecdotes about working with kids, showed off the beautiful pictures and scriptures covering his arms and legs but told me some were just for him. He told me about his passion for black empowerment, taught me what red, black, and green stood for, shared his dream of living off the grid, growing and creating his own, self-sustaining life. We exchanged music tastes, each giving the other a few albums for homework, to listen and report back. He listened to every single song I recommended to him, and would tell me about it the next day. When he told me he didn’t keep many people close, was more of a loner, and I replied that I was gonna make him be my friend. It was hard work. He constantly deflected conversation back to me, made me talk about myself, vaguely avoided my pleas to hangout. But finally, after weeks and weeks, he conceded and told me I had made my way into his inner circle.

By then, I had a full fledged crush. For once, I felt like I was falling for the right reasons. I was falling for the way he asked me “how are you?” and meant it, really listening to my response. I was falling for the way he mumbled, his smile-accent of talking through his constant grin, the way he was always optimistic and positive. I was falling for the way he made me feel like a prize. When he started to give me compliments, tell me how great I looked, how killer my outfit was, I realized that up until then, he had made me forget my body, in a good way- I never felt the least bit self-conscious around him. When he would get too close to me, it would bring fire to my cheeks. He made me feel giddy, like I could never fit all of the words I wanted to say, all the questions and conversations I wanted to trade with him, into our fleeting minutes. I just wanted his time, so badly.

And so I asked for it. Once, twice, three times, I asked for him to give me a chance, spend some more time with me, explore our connection. Like I said, he kept a small circle and seemed hesitant to let new people in. And so I pushed. I tried to get my point across the best I could, but it still just wasn’t working. And so I decided I needed to truly go for it, be a million percent straight up with him, make it so there was no chance of misinterpreting. I told him directly and bluntly that I liked him, that I wanted to spend more time with him, that I thought we had potential, a real connection, one that you don’t come by often.

And then I waited. I waited and I waited, what felt like an eternity, for him to affirm or deny me, accept of reject me. After days of doubt, he finally gave me something. “I like you too, but I just can’t give you what you need.” He gave me the typical nice guy run around, claiming he was interested in me but not ready for a relationship, or too busy with work, or had to get himself in order first, who knows. He pretended he still wanted to hangout and be friends and such, but his words proved empty when they were never followed with any actions. Bottom line was, I went from having a crush to absolutely crushed.

It’s been longer than I care to admit, and I still find myself a bit hung up on him. Not an everyday or every week sorta thing, but an every once in awhile, when I hear a great new song, or get a new book I’m excited to read, and just wish I had a special someone to share it with. Cuz that’s kinda the whole point, right? Finding someone who feels alongside you, celebrates your excitement and joy, listens to and comforts your letdowns and your pain. It’s hard because for a fleeting moment, he was that someone. On my first day of my new job he told me, “Hope everything goes your way, you deserve your dream. And you look amazing so don’t even ask.” Godammit, right?! It was cool to have someone in my corner like that. I miss it.

The reason I’m sharing all of this, all of the personal, pitiful details of my so-called love life, is twofold. The first is because I just need to get it off my chest, get it out. I’m having some trouble moving forward and I just wanna release this whole mess into the world and wave goodbye as the wind takes it. This is my catharsis, my good riddance. Secondly, I think I need to affirm myself, speak a little hope and optimism into this world. Through all of these failed attempts, I have noticed one thing, a general trend if you will: slowly, I am getting better at this. Each wrong person is getting me closer to the right one. Knowing what doesn’t work is just as important as knowing what does. Bit by bit, I am realizing what type of man I should pursue, what I truly deserve. I am failing in the right direction.

And so, on the heels of the new year, with snow falling outside my window and cuddling/cuffin season in full force, I am going to try my best to not give in to my loneliness and give up. I’m gonna take some time, lick my wounds, rebuild my confidence, and get back out there. I have a feeling I have a whole lot more failure ahead of me before I finally find some romantic success, but as long as I keep failing in the right direction, I’m gonna get there. I think, I hope, something greater is waiting for me.

And if all else fails and I end up single forever, I’m gonna be the best damn dog lady this world has ever seen.

Awful Year, Great Music: The Top Ten Albums of 2016

 

So it’s not secret that 2016 kinda majorly sucked. The year has been terrifyingly dangerous and hateful at worst, and dismal at best. Stateside, the political tension of election year has been particularly threatening and divisive, and internationally we continue to witness discrimination, death, and destruction on a daily basis. Prince, Muhammad Ali, and Willy Wonka died, Harambe got shot, phones exploded, Brexit happened, climate change is a hot mess (literally), Papaw got stood up by his grandkids, and a toxically unstable reality TV star/internet troll/antichrist was picked as our next president.

But some good things happened too. There were the memes of Kermit, Arthur, and Joe Biden to give us some light during our darkest days. The Cubbies finally won the world series, and Leicester City beat 5000-1 odds to win the Premier League for the first time. Tens of thousands of donations have been made to Planned Parenthood in Mike Pence’s name, the DAPL has been (temporarily, we gotta still fight for this one) suspended, and I got my dream job working as a counselor in a prison.

And then there was the music.

2016 has been a huge year for music. Incredible album after incredible album have been bombarding me since (sneak peek to my list) Anderson .Paak dropped “Malibu” last year on January 15th. Since then, I’ve been playing a constant game of catch up, trying to balance repeated rotation of my favorites (I listened to “Coloring Book” ONLY for I think three weeks) with intense inspection of every new project. The year’s close to an end and I’m still catching up on it all, but here is my definitive list of the most important, tragic, hopeful, thought and dance provoking, beautiful music that dropped this year. I would say I hope you enjoy, but I know you will.

*A note on criteria: For me, there is one simple quality makes music great- that we feel drawn back to it in times of heightened emotion, that it accentuates and fleshes out those feelings, provides comfort and community, makes our lives and experiences feel acknowledged and understood. Whether I’m feeling alone and need the perfect song to draw the tears from my eyes, frustrated and searching for the perfect beat to bang my head to, or joyous and looking for the right words and sounds to make my feet dance, what makes music truly great for me is that I find myself reaching for it in my most honest, human moments.

 

10. Bruno Mars- 24K Magic

This album is not: cutting edge, thought provoking, life changing. This album is: your favorite sugary, indulgent, flashy, guilty pleasure of 2016. This album is just so much fun, you can’t help but play it on repeat and sing and dance along the whole damn time. Bruno Mars plays into our love for throwback r&b and funk, paying homage to the greats like James Brown with the playful, confident, horn-laced “Perm,” and the Jackson 5 with “Too Good To Say Goodbye,”  a full-bodied, modernized riff on the similarly themed “Never Can Say Goodbye.” The rest of the album is full of late 80s and early 90s nostalgia, from the epic slow-jam ballad “Versace on the Floor,” (complete with a retro synth solo) to the Bobby Brown/New Edition/Bell Biv Devoe jump-around-while-rocking-a-high-top-fade vibes of “Finesse.” Bruno Mars’ “24K Magic,” may not be the album of the year, but it is most definitely the album of the weekend. I dare you not to dance along.

9. Common- Black America Again

If you’re looking for slick beats and soulful crooning layered with thoughtful, socially aware, intellectual poetry, look no further- on these fronts, Common never disappoints. “Black America Again” is Common’s commentary on and reply to 2016. While much of this album was constructed in reaction to election season and the current political atmosphere of the United States over the past few years, it just as strongly applies to the social and political landscape of the last hundred or so years. The title track, “Black America Again,” is a harrowing account of black oppression and an assertion of pride and the need to “rewrite the Black American story,” featuring sound clips from James Brown and the soulful, bleeding voice of Stevie Wonder. Themes of racial equality and black liberation continue in “Joy and Peace” and “A Bigger Picture Called Free,” and “The Day Women Took Over the World” speaks to the similar need for gender equality. “Love Star,” “Red Wine,” and “Unfamiliar” are sexy, loving slow jams, with “Red Wine” as an intoxicating standout featuring the enchanting, former Odd Future member, Syd tha Kyd. “Little Chicago Boy” provides a touching tribute to the life of his late father, and “Rain” utilizes the syrupy smooth John Legend to sing a piano-laden song of hope and optimism. The most chilling and powerful track on the album is Common’s “Letter to the Free,” a brutal examination of the prison industrial complex and it’s frightening similarities to slavery, written for Ava Duvernay’s must-see documentary “13th”. Common questions “Will the U.S. ever be us? Lord willing/ For we know now, the new Jim Crow/ They stop, search, and arrest our souls/ police and policies patrol philosophies of control,” as Bilal’s rich, pain filled lungs plead for freedom.

8. John Legend- Darkness and Light

“They say sing what you know, but I’ve sung what they want/ Some folks do what they’re told, but baby this time I won’t” sings John Legend in the opening lines of his fifth studio album, “Darkness and Light.” Johnny L keeps his promise and delivers an album of songs pulsing with authentic joy and pain, calling forth a more righteous and honest future. While John is more than capable on his own, be calls on some amazing artist friends to make the album really sing. “Penthouse Floor” featuring my boy Chance is a playful, upbeat song about gettin’ it on with your boo thang. “Darkness and Light,” featuring Alabama Shakes’ Brittany Howard, is the duet you never knew you needed so badly. The two of them together just absolutely shred on this sensual rock & soul jam. And the there’s “Overload,” featuring Miguel, a slow-burning, sexy dedication to the love you can’t hold back, the times we “chained our lives together, never took it slow.” “Surefire” sings of a love undeniably true, while “Same Old Story” confronts a love unraveling. Perhaps most moving track on the album is the “Right by You (For Luna),” a piano and horn driven dedication to his newborn daughter ripe with wisdom and advice, but even moreso a ponderance and prayer for the woman she will grow into, more questions than answers. While Legend acknowledges the unanswerable, unpredictable nature of life, he promises little Luna that “if angels don’t have answers to your prayers, Oh, I will be there.”

7. Anti- Rihanna

Okay, so I have to admit something. I’ve never really been that big of a Rihanna fan. I’ve always thought she was just a really beautiful woman who made some catchy songs, but not much more than that. Well, I’m an idiot- homegirl is so much more than that. This past year I have fallen for Rihanna pretty hard, and it’s not because she has the best voice or the most impressive lyrics- it’s because she is one of the world’s biggest, most glamorous celebrity icons and yet still somehow manages to maintain a rawness and authenticity that is essentially unrivaled in the pop world. Rihanna is unapologetically herself, at all times, and it’s outrageously attractive. “Anti” displays this better than any of her previous album, showcasing her genuine and complex emotions, ranging from her most vulnerable to her most savage. “Anti” also takes a refreshing departure from her pop and R&B roots and combines genre-bending elements of pop, rock, soul, dancehall, and everything in between. “Needed Me,” “Yeah I Said It,” and “Sex With Me” might come off as crude sexcapades, but are in reality are social-norm defying, empowering declarations of sexual liberation and power that women are rarely afforded and desperately deserve. “Love on the Brain,” and “Close to You,” explore the other end of the spectrum, using retro doo-wop (Love on the Brain) and stripped back, soaring piano (Close to You) to illustrate being hopelessly, irrevocably in love. My favorite track on the album is the two minute long “Higher,” which is essentially a drunk voicemail, warning “this whiskey got me feeling pretty,” before going on to scream about how much she wants their old love back. The straightforwardness of the short song (“And I know I could be more creative, and come up with poetic lines/ But I’m turnt up upstairs and I love you is the only thing that’s in my mind”) perfectly encapsulates why we find ourselves hopelessly obsessed with Rihanna- she is raw, dirty, blunt, turnt, emotional, and oh-so-relatable.

6. Solange- A Seat at the Table

This woman. This goddamn woman. So, Solange is best known for being the little sister of one of the biggest superstars in the entire world. We’ve all had those days where we just drool over Beyonce and wish we could be her- can you possibly imagine what it would be like to be her LITTLE SISTER?! The amount of pressure and favoritism and inadequacy and envy and overshadowing you might feel? And despite (or perhaps in spite of) this, Solange is a stunning, complex, creative, beautiful and powerful force all her own that the world seems to be finally catching on to. Solange is an artist in every sense of the word- she thinks of every single angle of her music and presents it as a cohesive, stylish, boundary-pushing united front of sights, sounds, and sensations. Her artistry oozes out of her every pore and fills her words, her dress, her movement, her environment, with complete synchronicity. With this in mind, it’s hard to pull out a favorite song, as they flow so effortlessly together, but they stand just as strong when isolated. “Cranes in the Sky” standouts as the album’s hypnotic centerpiece, ruminating on all the varied and intricate ways in which we try to escape our pain that eventually prove fruitless. Throughout the album, Solange waxes on the themes of love and pain, weakness and power, in a way that is universally accessible, but that directly and deliberately speaks to her experience as a black woman in America. The cutting, empowering “Don’t Touch My Hair” confronts white America’s ignorant culture of microaggression and boundary invasion of black people and women alike. “Mad,” featuring the stylings of Lil Wayne, further explores the restraints forced on black women and their freedom of expression. “F.U.B.U.” provides a shining ode to black empowerment, and “Junie” brings the funk. Through and through, this album proves to the world that Solange is not just the little sister, but a brilliant, formidable superstar in her own right.

5. Gallant- Ology

So Gallant is just 24, my age, and already wayyyyy more successful and cool than I’ll ever be. Maryland native Christopher Gallant has emerged this past year as one of R&B’s brightest new talents. Among those in Gallant’s corner are British pop star Seal (who calls himself Gallant’s “biggest fan”), heralded singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens (who Gallant toured with in 2015), and R&B vixen Jhene Aiko, who duets with Gallant on the intoxicating “Skipping Stones.” Gallant’s debut studio album “Ology” is a musical masterpiece that has been years in the making, and you can tell. Gallant’s lyrics are fresh and unexpected (“I’m a headless horseman on quilted sand dunes/ With my neck wide open, I pray for refuge”), his falsetto unbelievable (literally), and his production intricate, layered, and precise. Standouts include the trippy, sonic “Talking to Myself,” the smooth and soothing “Bourbon,” and my personal favorite, the screamingly emphatic yet painfully vulnerable “Weight in Gold,” which beautifully describes the pain of carrying the world on your shoulders. “Ology” is a stunning breakout album that shows us Gallant is here to stay.

4. Noname- Telefone

Speaking of stunning debuts…25 year old Chicago native Noname’s mixtape “Telefone” may just be a sneaky contender for rap album of the year. Known best for her verse on “Lost” from Chance’s “Acid Rap” (which he called his favorite feature of all time) and more recently for an appearance on Chance’s “Finish Line/Drown,” Noname finally gave us a mixtape entirely her own. Noname’s style is subtle but impactful, tempered yet fierce. Her jazzy, easy-going, soulful sound is easy to bop your head along to, but she is so much more than just chill vibes. Her delivery is similarly so graceful and tranquil that it often takes a few listens through to understand the full breadth of her wisdom. Her lyrics are laced with poetic nuance, a spoken word/rap combo telling stories rich with strife and struggle, celebration and joy, nostalgia and fear for the future, all through the lens of a young black woman in Chicago.

The project opens with the sentimental “Yesterday,”  a eulogy to those lost and the lessons they teach us. “Diddy Bop” is a the album’s standout, feel- good song, a delicious ode to summer and childhood and dreams: “This sound like growing out my clothes/ stars in my pockets dreaming of making my hood glow.” “Reality Check” details her roadblocks in completing this album, but reminds us not to “fear the light that dwells deep within”. “Casket Pretty” is a chilling prayer for safety from the untimely death and police brutality that haunts communities of color. Noname raps “too many babies in suits, too many babies in suits,” over a melancholy sample of a baby giggling. The album signs out with “Shadow Man,” which again addresses the themes of oppression, death, and mortality over a seemingly joyous beat, signifying the precarious balance of fear and joy that she’s felt in her short life. My only complaint is that at just over thirty minutes long, Noname leaves us wanting, no needing, more. This woman is one you’re gonna want to watch.

3. Anderson .Paak- Malibu

The stylized dot in Anderson .Paak’s name stands for detail, and attention to detail is most definitely something that he takes pride in. Singer/rapper/musician Anderson .Paak is a jack of all trades. His raspy, throwback voice drips through his songs, delivering tones that are somehow simultaneously wonderfully gritty and soulfully smooth. His delivery shifts from melodic and soothing to spitfire and demanding, constantly blurring the line between hip hop and r&b, soul and jazz, funk and gospel. And then there’s his drumming- it’s stupid good. His percussion and rhythms are just as unexpected and barrier-breaking as he is. This man and his music do not follow the rules, and thank god they don’t because the final product is extraordinary.  “Malibu,” the second album from .Paak, is brilliant from start to finish, tasty to the last drop. Seriously- there are 15 tracks on the album, and not one dud, not one half-assed filler. Not only that, every single song is solid. “Malibu” isn’t the least bit overindulgent or drawn out, it’s a perfectly constructed, cohesive album.

With so many contenders, it’s hard to pick the best tracks, but some standouts include “The Bird,” a wearisome yet hopeful autobiographical account of his childhood; “Heart Don’t Stand a Chance,” a sultry mindwarp, daring the woman in his sight, and the listener, not get sucked in; “Silicon Valley,” a sulty, playfully crude slow jam about how you can’t get by on looks alone; and “Celebrate,” a funky, joyful reminder that “you’re doing well, I mean you ain’t dead, so let’s celebrate while we still can.”

2. Frank Ocean- Blond

You know you’re the man when Beyonce sings backup vocals on your track. With that being said, Frank had us nervous. With the extreme amount of build up surrounding this project, it seemed like a setup for disappointment. How could Frank possibly live up to the hype? At first, when Frank dropped the 45 minute ambient video/album “Endless,” I listened with hopeful, curious ears and finished wanting so, so much more. I have to admit I was a bit deflated. But then, just one day later, Frank let us in on the big surprise and revealed the full-length, 17 track “Blonde,” (or Blond, depending on who you ask). Frank makes music for people in transition and turmoil. Like his trademark name, Ocean’s music invokes the simultaneous freedom and fear of open water, sucking you in with the tide and then hurtling you crashing into the shore. He boldly discusses self-exploration and experimentation, sex and drugs, expertly addressing the delicate balance between euphoria and pain, with an emphasis on pain. This is an album that you may not entirely connect to the first, or second, or fifth time through, but that you will find yourself circling back to, comforting you in times of need.

While “Nikes” starts off the album with a sexy, thought provoking rumination on popular culture and materialism, the remainder of the album focuses on relationships, both intrapersonal and interpersonal. Frank has an interesting way of draping heartbreak and longing in a strange sweetness and nostalgia. “Ivy,” “Pink + White,” and “Solo” all explore the pain of being stood up, rejected, and unrequited in a wonderfully melodic and soothing way. “Skyline to” and “Nights” provide cool, sensual odes to sex and sensation. “White Ferrari” and “Siegfried” continue on the heartbreaking themes of insecurity and desire, of forgotten love and failed intimacy. Throughout the album both the intricate production and Frank’s interesting word choices give off the mystery and deliberateness of poetry.

And then there’s “Self Control,” perhaps my favorite on the album. The song is just straight up painful. As a woman all too familiar with the experience of unrequited love, I heavily identify with this song. The seething “keep a place for me, I’ll sleep between you,” perfectly pinpoints the way we sacrifice our own dignity and cling onto any shred of something, and the repetition of “it’s nothing” mimics how we try to convince ourselves we are okay when we are breaking. And then there’s the curious, magnetic, melodious build of the song. Needless to say, it had me in tears my first listen.  “Godspeed” offers a commanding (and much-needed) moment of hope and unconditional love, cloaked in organs and soft chanting. Oh, and I almost forgot- Andre 3000 comes in on “Solo (Reprise) and absolutely shreds. For all of us who have been waiting for years to see what Frank would gift us with next, “Blonde” is exactly the so much more that we were yearning for.

<p><a href=”https://vimeo.com/179791907″>Frank Ocean – ‘Nikes'</a> from <a href=”https://vimeo.com/dobedoproductions”>DoBeDo Productions</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

1. Coloring Book- Chance the Rapper

It is near impossible to not like Chance the Rapper and his latest free mixtape “Coloring Book.” And yet somehow, as always, haters gon’ hate, even on a project as near to perfection as this. I was discussing these outliers with my friend and she said to me, “if you don’t enjoy this album, you’re probably not happy with yourself or your life.” At first I laughed, but then I realized that she was kinda, okay definitely right. Chance makes joyful music. Even in his most melancholy songs, he seems to be almost grateful, humbled and honored by the ability to feel that sadness. “Coloring Book” is an overwhelmingly positive, upbeat, happy celebration of life and love. It repeatedly invokes images and sounds of our youth, using nostalgia to remind us of the pure, effervescent joy of childhood, and our ability to carry it with us as we travel through the arduous, unpredictable terrain of our adult lives.

Chance the Rapper is just what the world needs right now. The 23 year old Chicago native is the antithesis of what popular music is supposed to be: he has amassed an incredible following, achieved prosperous commercial success and critical acclaim, (not to mention 3 Grammy nominations!), and all without signing to a major record label or ever selling any of his music. As he proclaims in “Blessings,” “I don’t make songs for free; I make em for freedom.” Furthermore, Chance doesn’t just strive for personal success, but for the success of all of Chicago. As he raps in “Finish Line/ Drown,” Chance is head over heels “in love with my city, bitch I sleep in my hat.” Chance is heavily involved in nonprofit and charitable work, political activism, and youth programs in his city, constantly using his fame to bring a spotlight to pressing social issues, and to highlight the important work being done to address them. On top of all that, Chance refuses to endorse the divisive, competitive nature of hip hop and instead chooses to regularly feature and promote other young artists from the Chicago and beyond. In “Angels,” a buoyant, joyful ode to his city, Chance raps “Ooh, I just might share my next one with [Chief] Keef, got the industry in disbelief, they be asking for beef.” Coloring Book is chock-full of guest features, from heavy hitters like Lil Wayne and Kanye West, to younger, emerging artists like Ty Dolla Sign and Saba, to exciting surprises like Kirk Franklin and Jay Electronica. His cousin Nicole is even featured in the Gospel-driven “How Great” (and credited simply as “My cousin Nicole”). Chance expertly pulls together his entire community to create a rhythmically layered, melodically textured, content rich ode to life and to living.

“All We Got” opens the albums with horns and hype, percussion and positivity. A quick anecdote about this song to help you understand how insightful and selfless this young man is, taken from a GQ interview earlier this year:

“There was a lyric where I say: Life was never perfect / I could merch it. And for the first, like, the last two months before the project came out, that was the line. It was: Life was never perfect. And I remember, the last week I was like, ‘Let me go in there and do a dub’ ”—an overdub—“and say, Man, I swear my life is perfect. Because I don’t know if I really want people repeating that and thinking that and shouting that to me from the crowd on a stage. ‘Life was never perfect.’ Life is perfect! You know?”

(Like, are you kidding me? Could he be more thoughtful, more inspiring, more loveable? Again, if you don’t like his music, you’ve got some internal ish you need to work out)

Next comes “No Problem,” a carefree, confident challenge to all the people who told him he needed to sign to a major label to find success. With the help of Francis Starlite’s somber vocals, “Summer Friends” dips to a more pensive place, reflecting on how exposure to violence played a strong role in his childhood in the Chatham neighborhood of Chicago. Next comes a quick, dreamlike interlude “Special” from rapper/singer “D.R.A.M”. The first “Blessings” is next, a testament to the powerful role that God and religion has played in his life and in his success. Chance expels humility and gratitude, remarking “it seems like blessings keep falling in my lap.” “Same Drugs” was my first favorite song on this album. My first listen through, this song stopped me in my tracks and sucked my deep, deep into the past. The song chronicles what it’s like to grow up and apart from someone you love, pleading “Don’t you miss the days? When did you start to forget how to fly?”. The song made me cry as I wondered to myself, when and why did the magic fade? But again, as always, even in the darker moments, Chance pulls us back into the light. The song ends with the soft reminder “Don’t forget the happy thoughts”.

“Mixtape” featuring Young Thug and Lil Yachty is a pounding, gritty call to honor the art of the mixtape. After “Angels” celebrates Chicago, “Juke Jam” provides a surprise contender for slow jam of the year. Featuring Justin Bieber and Towkio, it’s a smooth, sexy recollection of the moment when young love transitions from innocent and pure to more sensual and adult: “I mean it’s just dancing. It’s harmless as fuck/ Then I put my waist through your hips and your legs in my arms just to harness you up.” “All Night” is next, a perfect quick, fun, party song. “How Great” continues themes of God and religion, remixing the classic gospel song with new verses from Chance and the illustrious Jay Electronica. “Smoke Break” is a lovely little ode to his lady, commenting on how between his career and their baby girl, him and his woman hardly have enough time to love and care for each other, let alone take a smoke break. Chance’s love for his woman is clear, as he invites her to slow down, relax, enjoy a bath and a meal, and finally indulge in all of the things she so deserves.

“Finish Line/ Drown” is my favorite track on the album. I have to admit, it took a few spins for me to fully understand the message. The first half of the song is a celebration of Chance’s fruitful successes, from his career to his family to his relationship with God. The chorus chants “All my days, I’ve prayed and prayed, and now I see the finish line, I’m gonna finish mine.” At first, when I heard this, I was a bit confused. Like I said, Chance is just a young man, only 23 years old, a brand new father, only a few years into what looks to be a long career. At first I found myself confused and a bit put off by the idea of seeing the “finish line.” It felt like a premature proclamation, like he was celebrating the idea of finishing when he was only just beginning. I didn’t quite understand. As the first half of the song slows down, rapper Noname spits a verse showing her gratefulness to God and his guidance through difficult times. As she fades out, a choir fades in, lead by legendary gospel musician Kirk Franklin, singing “The water may be deeper than it’s ever been, never drown.” Okay, I thought, now this part makes sense to me- the water is deep, but we will fight and pray and hope for a better tomorrow. I still didn’t quite understand how that went with the first half of the song, how this call to persevere made sense if the “finish line” has already been reached.

But then, a few listens in, something clicked. The water is deep- so, so deep, perhaps deeper than it’s ever been. Living this life is often an uphill battle, for some even moreso than others. By saying he could see the finish line, Chance wasn’t saying that it was over, that he had done all he needed to do and was content. He was recognizing that getting to this point- that living through all of his varied experiences, that surviving a city that many don’t, that finding love and joy and a strong sense of spirituality, is something worth celebrating, and something worth celebrating immensely. This life is a precarious, dangerous, terrifying, beautiful thing, and surviving it, facing it, working through it, finding light in the darkness, is something worth celebrating. We don’t celebrate our successes enough, rarely give ourselves credit for all that we do. With this song, Chance wasn’t telling me he was at the final finish line, but that he had simply finished one of the many races we run in life, and that is something worth shouting from the rooftops.

And then the album ends with more “Blessings,” more spoken word than rap, ending with a chorus of Chance’s famous friends repeating “Are you ready for your blessing? Are you ready for your miracle?” I saw Chance in concert this year and listening to tens of thousands of kids sing those words in unison was one of the more surreal, lovely moments of my young life. I am so thankful for Chance as a musician and as a human being, so incredibly grateful for the joy and inspiration and playfulness and honesty he breathes into this world. “Coloring Book” is my album of the year by a longshot.

 

Honorable Mentions: those album and songs that were killer, but didn’t quite make the top ten cutoff

Albums:

“Radius”- Allen Stone

This blue-eyed soul singer is one of the rare people who sounds even more incredible live than he does recorded. No matter how you are listening to his music, Allen Stone ensures that you are thoroughly enjoying yourself. While he speaks to both joy and pain, he does both with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for life and optimism for what’s to come. The standout, feel-good song of the year is “Where You’re At,” an stunning, sweet, honest call for self-love and acceptance.

“Love + War”- Kwabs

I first fell in love with Kwabs’s deep, rumbling baritone when my little brother showed me the song “Cheating on Me.” Ever since then I’ve been hooked on his gravelly, textured voice, introspective lyrics, and genre-deviant production. Outside of the aforementioned “Cheating on Me,” album highlights include the synthy, dance-worthy “Make You Mine,” the 80s reminiscent “Father Figure,” and the booming “Perfect Ruin,” a ballad on the overwhelming nature of love.

 

“Untitled Unmastered”- Kendrick Lamar

When your b-sides are better than everyone else’s A-sides…On the real doe, this collection of scraps that didn’t quite fit into “To Pimp a Butterfly” are far more than just leftovers, they are a full entree in their own right.

“Bucket List Project”- Saba

I was on a two hour drive one day from CT to MA and looking for something new to listen to, and threw this album on on a whim. I was pleasantly surprised when I found myself instantaneously drawn in to Saba’s magnetic music. His music is refreshingly unexpected, his flow steady yet unpredictable and creative, the production thoughtful, layered, and intriguing, his lyrics confident yet humble, commanding but accessible. Standouts include the gets-stuck-in-your-head-all-day “Stoney,” the melancholy yet soothing “Church/ Liquor Store,” and undeniably dope “American Hypnosis”. With this album, Saba promises to “turn an obstacle obsolete”.

Songs:

“Lake by the Ocean”- Maxwell

2009’s “BLACKsummersnight” by Maxwell is one of my favorite albums, of all time. This years follow up album, ‘blackSUMMERSnight,” was underwhelming. Don’t get me wrong, Maxwell’s sultry voice always shines, but the lyrics and composition left something to be desired. The standout single is “Lake by the Ocean,”  a soulful rumination on intimacy and struggle, likening the power and turbulence of love to the force of nature.

“Neighbors”- J. Cole

“4 Your Eyez Only” was another album this year that was a bit of a letdown for me. I’m a big Cole fan, and the album was good, with a few tracks that I found myself bumpin on repeat, but overall I feel like it could have been much better. This album just didn’t quite live up to it’s potential in my opinion. “Neighbors” was a standout for me, both for it’s super dope, mesmerizing production, and for it’s inspired-by-real-life-events story of Cole getting a SWAT team sent to his house because of the racist paranoia of his wealthy, white neighbors.

“Amen”- Anthony Hamilton

I just love this man and his music so much. His voice was bestowed upon him by whatever higher power there is out there-it is a gift from above and we are so lucky that we get to enjoy it. This is my favorite track of his current album “What I’m Feeling” because it remarks on the spiritual, otherworldly nature of love.

“Blended Families”- Alicia Keys ft. A$AP Rocky

This song makes me feel so warm. I’m a child of divorced parents, and now that both of them have found new significant others, I find myself a part of a bunch of new, crazy, chaotic, beautiful new extended families. Shouts out to Alicia for making a song detailing the wonderful flexibility of the word “family.” Also I love me some A$AP.

“Cold Little Heart”- Michael Kiwanuka

I am wildly obsessed with Michael Kiwanuka’s 2012 album “Home Again,” and while his most recent album “Love & Hate,” is quite a deviation from it, it is littered with gems all it’s own. “Cold Little Heart” is the soaring, ten minute, intro song to the album, featuring beautiful, building instrumentation and Kiwanuka’s signature raspy, soulful brood.

One Foot in Front of the Other: Figuring out How to Move Forward

Hey guys.

So I’m not sure where to start. I guess I’ll start by saying that I am having trouble writing as of late. As you may know, writing is basically therapy to me. I’m a very deep-feeling, emotional person, and I often get a bit overwhelmed by all the things floating around and colliding into one another in my head. Writing has always been the way that I have processed and organized these thoughts, picked them out of the sky and etched them into stone. Writing is one of the things I’m most passionate about, one of the things I feel most confident about and proud of, one of the things I can’t live without.

But lately I just can’t find words. And the words I do have don’t feel meaningful. I’m finding it very hard to write right now, because everything I have to say- all of my opinions and musings and observations and reflections on life- they all feel a bit trivial. I had a couple of blogs ready to go about different things going on in my life, but to post them now would feel like willful ignorance of the bigger issues, and so I feel I have to attempt to say something, even if it comes out messy.

Something big has happened in America. When we went to sleep a few Tuesday’s ago, we woke up to a different world on Wednesday, no matter what side of the coin we were on. I woke up at 4am, looked up the results, and cried until I had to leave for work at 7. My middle of the night text to my dad looks like I was drunk and that’s kind of how I felt- completely at odds with reality, unsteady, woozy). Life has drastically changed. And furthermore, there is no overwhelming majority, no unanimous decision. The country is split.

Where am I at? To be transparent- I am a mess. A mess of emotions, a mess of thoughts and opinions, a mess of ideas. I feel physically and emotionally despondent and depleted. I feel like I am living underwater, moving in slow motion against an all-encompassing current. It is hard for me to remain engaged in everything going on in politics because it is disheartening and exhausting and makes me feel hopeless some days. (Most days). I also am having to CONSTANTLY check myself and remind myself that the confusion/anger/pain/sadness/fear that I am experiencing as a privileged, straight white woman in Massachusetts PALES in comparison to what so many are feeling and experiencing across the country right now. Relatively, I have it so easy. And yet still I am afraid.

I’m also completely in denial. I cannot begin to wrap my head around this. Since the president elect isn’t inaugurated until January, I’ve just let myself wildly imagine that maybe something will happen between now and then to change it. But let’s be honest- probably not. And so I need to start moving again.

But how? The other day I was distracting myself from real life by watching cheesy Christmas movies. “Santa Claus is coming to Town,” an absolute classic, was on. There’s this scene where the Winter Warlock is telling Kris Kringle how difficult it is for him to change, how arduous the journey to a new him seems. Kris goes on to sing this catchy, campy little song called “Put one foot in front of the other,” where he explains that “a good way to start is to stand.” And so I am trying to stand, and to start taking shaky baby steps, and hoping that I will slowly begin to grow comfortable moving through this world again.

I try to be very polished in my blogs. It might not always seem like it, but I pour over them for hours and days, trying to make sure that I’m getting across concisely what is in my heart. I’m a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to my writing, and only share when I truly feel ready, that every line says what I mean it to say.

This blog will not be that. I cannot perfect and polish right now because my mind and heart are not settled or steady. And so I am going to begin to process out loud, with you, in hopes that putting words to paper will be that first step in helping me learn to walk again.

Some things I am figuring out…

Yelling vs. talking:

I’ve been feeling very radical and militant as of late. There is a big part of me that just wants to run the streets screaming and calling everyone a selfish , ignorant, hypocrite. I feel angry and sad and scared and I feel very justified in those feelings. They have valid reasons behind them. I am not responding dramatically to an election- I am responding realistically to the culture of my country changing in a way that directly threatens my safety and the safety of those I love. As a woman. As a survivor of sexual assault. As an ally, friend, and family member to immigrants, people of color, the LGBTQ community, etc. I am being threatened, my loved ones are being threatened, and screaming and yelling at the people that are directly or indirectly attacking me feels like a natural and justified response to that. (And yeah I’m a woman, but let’s not forget that I’m white so I’m still privileged AF. So my visceral anger and emotion is nothing compared to those whose identities are being more directly threatened. They have tenfold more of a reason to be yelling and screaming and reacting in whatever way they damn please).

And yet, all my training in the social services field tells me that the best way to communicate a point is in a calm and approachable manner. When aggressively challenged, people become defensive, and when defenses go up, rationality goes way, way down. (Literally. Our IQs drop when we’re angry or stressed). Once someone is worked up, it is very difficult to get a point across. People are generally much more receptive to an idea when they feel respected and valued. I’ve had some refreshingly positive and productive conversations with those with vastly different values than me, and they’ve been when both sides have been calm and respectful. And so if I start by yelling at them, pointing out all of the things I think they’re doing wrong and all of the ways in which they’re terrible, of course they’re not going to respond well.

But as my friend Jules put simply and eloquently over dinner a few weeks ago, “sometimes you have to yell to be heard.” He explained that often when we try to approach things calmly, we are ignored, not taken seriously, or simply placated for the time being. Think about all of the major civil rights movements in this country, or any other country in the world for that matter. Changes don’t happen when people politely ask for them; they happen when people fight and push and yell and make them happen. And furthermore- human rights are not something we should ever have to politely ask about. They are something we are entitled to and must continue to demand, unwaveringly.

Where I’m at right now, I guess, is maintaining that I should try my best to engage in respectful dialogue with individuals who show the capacity to do the same with me. (So like, my conservative friend from college deserves a respectful conversation, but that guy yelling racist shit on the T does not.) But so many do need to be yelled at. Especially our deeply corrupt and backwards institutions and social structures. I don’t have any respect or patience to spare for them.

And so I am still figuring out when to yell and when to talk and which is more productive when.

Self care/hope vs. escapism/blind optimism:

I am, by nature, a relentlessly optimistic and upbeat individual. I believe that hope and optimism are not just niceties, but necessities in this world. I strongly, firmly believe that humans are innately good. I’ve been told many times that my optimism and bleeding heart make me naive. I’ve always thought the opposite- it takes incredible strength and willpower to choose to believe in good when you are surrounded by bad.

In the days immediately following the election, I found myself having this internal debate about whether or not it was appropriate for me to be optimistic. I was hurting, and when put in a place of real sadness, anxiety, or fear, the gut instinct is to find something to cheer myself up. There was a huge chunk of me that wanted to fight my dark feelings with inspirational music, laughter, enjoying nature and sunshine, seeking out little “beacons of hope” like positive stories in the media.

But I was torn because my ability to step away from it all is such a privilege in and of itself. My ability to engage in joyful things and momentarily “forget” is such a privilege that many people don’t have.

And yet I’m a such a firm believer in self care- in seeking comfort when you feel distress, in trying to distance yourself from things that cause you harm, in treating yourself, in trying to find silver linings and reasons for hope. But messages of hope and happiness felt almost patronizing, too far out of touch. I feel like there’s a bit of a dangerous line between wanting to be hopeful and share stories illustrating that humanity is in fact good, and oversimplifying or pretending things are better than they are with one little wholesome moment.

I voiced these concerns to my friend CJ and he suggested that while well intentioned, blind messages of hope and optimism can in fact be reductive or patronizing. Perhaps the idea, he continued, is that we package those doses of inspiration with education and resources and calls to action that ground that vague hope in atcual, tangible goals and ideas. A realistic optimist. A dreamer with a plan.

And so I am still figuring out how to mindfully avoid escapism and blind optimism while also prioritizing self care and championing hope.

The role of my voice:

I feel that I have a strong writing voice and that when I share my words, people listen to what I have to say. And so, I feel that speaking on these issues is a duty and a responsibility that I can’t neglect. You may be familiar with the phrase “white silence is violence”. This is invariably true. If I am not actively acknowledging and working against my privilege, I am perpetuating it, allowing it to continue. Think about it like this- Seeing someone getting beat up and walking by without saying or doing anything. Yes, you are not the attacker, not administering the punches, but by saying nothing you are enabling them to continue to harm someone and not holding them accountable or helping them understand that what they’re doing is wrong. Being silent in a position of privilege and power is not indifference, it is unfortunately allowing these things to happen.

But at the same time- part of the reason we’re in this problem is because we streamline white voices to the front of the pack, every time. Our media, our entertainment, our history, has largely been written by white voices. Anything I could possibly have to say about all this has already been said a thousand times for a thousand years by minority and oppressed voices. Yet when a white voice says it, it is finally deemed credible and important. I keep hearing “echo-chambers” thrown around, and I challenge you to take that and apply it to all the voices and words you ingest daily. How much of the news you read, tweets you favorite, movies you watch, music you listen to, textbooks you study, novels you read, are written/said/created by identities different than yours? I’m talking race, gender, sexuality, ability, religion, native country, etc. I can promise you that the answer is not enough. We need to work on this. We need to champion, listen to, and learn from voices different than our own across as many planes as possible.

And so I am still figuring out how to speak up and speak against these issues without speaking over and silencing the voices that need to be heard the most.

The “stereotyping Trump supporters is just as bad as the stereotyping you claim they do”/ “It’s ridiculous to cut someone out of your life JUST over political differences” arguments:

For me there’s a big difference between harmless opinion and hate speech/ perpetuating oppression. When your opinion regards which human lives you deem most valuable and “american”, it’s not just an opinion- it’s an act oppression.

These opinions, when expressed, are harmful and threatening and can directly or indirectly affect your emotional and physical well being . Ex) I like vanilla ice cream and chocolate ice cream is trash vs. I like white people and black people are trash. Yes both may be “opinions”, but one has harmful real life effects. Writing that sentence itself may not seem like it could harm or threaten someone, (though I would argue it can pose a serious threat to mental health and internalized self worth), but someone speaking those views on social media is releasing that prejudice into the world, enabling themselves and others who are reading in agreement to feel supported in their bigotry. I I personally believe it’s both justified and important to cut people out whose “opinions” extend into something that may make you feel unsafe or threatened. When physical safety and emotional well being come into play, I feel justified in my own “prejudice” against them.

Furthermore, I don’t think it’s fair to title negative thoughts in both ways as “prejudice”. There is an important difference between the oppressed vengefully fighting back against the oppressor, and the oppressor continually, from their position of power, attacking the oppressed. And you could argue that those are subjective terms or perceived positions, but you can objectively trace through history how hierarchies of power and control have affected some populations more significantly than others

People say that to ruin or cut out a relationship based on politics is ridiculous and dramatic. But aren’t our political leanings rooted in our strongest beliefs and morals? And aren’t those perhaps the most valid reasons to distance yourself from someone- when you feel that their code of ethics may differ significantly from yours? Or worse- when you feel that their beliefs are putting you in harm’s way? Of course that is a simplistic and over-generalized way to look at it, but it’s something important to acknowledge.

And so I am still figuring out how to rid my life of people whose beliefs/words/actions make me physically and emotionally unsafe while also avoiding living in an echo-chamber of like-minded people

I have a lot of figuring out to do. One thing I’m sure about, though, is that we cannot become complacent. In a segment on Last Week Tonight, John Oliver said, “It’s going to be easy for things to start feeling normal- especially if you are not someone directly impacted by his actions- so keep reminding yourself: this is not normal. Write it on a post-it note and stick it on your refrigerator, hire a skywriter once a month, tattoo it on your ass, because a Klan-backed misogynist internet troll is going to be delivering the next State of the Union address, and that is not normal. It is FUCKED UP.” We cannot let this becomes normalized. As the stink builds up and swallows us, we will begin to go noseblind and get used to the smells. But we must continue to remind ourselves that we are better than all the shit surrounding us. We need to make sure that we do not become desensitized to what is happening around us.

Like I said, these are just some collected, jumbled thoughts. There’s a lot of confusion and gray area. There are a lot of half-baked ideas and half-formulated plans. There are a million more conversations happening in my head, some feelings in my chest that I still don’t quite have words to put to. I have a lot of questions. I don’t have many solutions. But we have to try. We have to embrace the discomfort and confront the pain head on if we ever want to move forward.  I’m gonna mess up. I’m gonna misstep. I’m just hoping that talking this out will help me figure out how to start moving forward, how to finally take the first step. How to put one foot in front of the other.

(Above artwork by my friend Alex Cook. Visit his site at http://www.stonebalancer.com to see more of the beautiful art, music, and love he is creating and sharing with the world)