Men That Beg: "I miss you"

It was in one of my previous post that I randomly said “art is pain.” I declared that I would do an entire post with that quote as the focal point. I will, but that time is not now. Today I refer back to that quote because as I sit in my apartment listening to The Chi-Lites “Have you seen her”, I am reminded that it is that pain, that raw emotion that brings a smile to my face. Oldies warm my heart. They take me from my current situation of observing too many men take too many good women for granted, to a place where men pour their hearts out for them. It’s like they bled on those records. They bleeeeed. They bled in a way that rappers who prematurely say “I’m going to bleed on this track” can’t even fathom. It’s exactly that back in the day “rapping” my mother refers to, when she talks about men knowing how to say exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. She calls it rapping. I call it begging. And while I’m not fond of men who beg, I am favoring of men strong enough to be desperate for an incredible woman.

I have long established that I am generationally misplaced in a way that leaves me feeling like my old soul is being compromised by this modern age. I often wonder how I would have been “courted” if I dated men blessed enough to have the “oldies” as their generation’s music. Oldies, the kind of music that gave men a reference point on how to appreciate and treat women. Plainly, this music had an effect on how those men regarded women. I would even be willing to bet, if this kind of emotionally charged music was blaring from men’s radios today their hearts would reflect it. Life would imitate art. They would be better men for it.

The only genre of music I label, hesitantly, as comparable to old school soul is Rhythm and Blues* (R&B). Actually, this was the blanket label that all Black music received in the twentieth century. Sadly, even contemporary R&B is being phased out on mainstream radio. In its place, rap is monopolizing. To make matters worse, the pop like songs that fill the nominal place of R&B do not remotely scratch the surface of what soul sounds like. Erykah Badu, whose music I have recently discovered an appreciation for, I heard took to twitter recently to verbalize her disgust with the current state of the soul in music. I share similar sentiments. Where is the soul? Even when I hear songs that express feelings of love it seems so artificial and contrived when you place it alongside oldies from men like Marvin Gaye.

For several months I have contemplated the difference in the quality of emotion showcased in R&B compared to the oldies. It doesn’t make sense that these male artists seemingly pour their hearts out, and the end result is still-- flat. I listen to a Brian McKnight cover of Marvin Gaye’s Distant Lover and I literally laugh at his poor rendition of it. The fact that he would even try to cover a classic like Distant Lover is laughable, but more-so the way that he thought he could cover it without committing to the song was what really tickled me. His cover though, is a perfect indication of the current state of what use to be soul music—these men are trying to be cute with it. These male singers are putting artificial sweetener in the tea, and like artificial sweetener it taste bitter. There is nothing pretty about soul. An attempt to make it cute is going to be a failure on its face. Soul is a combination of desperation, pain, and bliss. An emotion intensified is what it is. This kind of exaggeration is not pretty. It’s ugly. You don’t smile through soul.

I watch people regard Trey Songz like a modern-day Marvin Gaye and it’s funny to me. Instead, I see him as an overgrown boy. He sings about sex often but the way he sings about it reminds me of an inexperienced boy mimicking what his older brother said on the subject. I’m not saying Trey Songz is a virgin, by any stretch of the imagination. I’m just saying that his attempt at trying to sound passionate and sexy comes off hoaxy. To be sexy and passionate when you sing about sex, I would think you would need to intimately know the soul of the thing. He obviously doesn’t know the soul of sex.

And this is what I have come to believe is the problem with male artists today. I don’t think they sing with any soul because they haven’t found it yet. It is my belief that soul is created through hardships. I think soul becomes visible through the evolution of that adversity. On both points, I think modern day men are lacking. Further, I don’t think you hear the soul in these men’s voices when they sing about losing a woman because they don’t know the pain associated with losing one. In order to feel that kind of pain he would have had to place a lot of value in her in the first place. I think that goes to the deeper reason for the absence of soul—men’s decreased value in a sole woman.

A friend of mine, who will smile as he reads this, is one of the best quality men I know. If I have a daughter one day I would feel comfortable with her loving a man like him. I asked this great quality man what he thought on the issue of modern music compared to the oldies. He told me that songs are different now because women have made men different. He thinks that the value of women overall has diminished in men’s minds because there are so many bad quality ones that allow men to run amuck. Although we go through different avenues we both arrive at the same dead-end road. The songs sound different because men feel differently about women. And again I say, this comes from one of the best quality men I know.

I try to do at least two miles of cardio a day. What takes me to three or four miles is when Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes I Miss You randomly pops up from my shuffled play-list. It gives me just the burst of energy I need to go another thirty or forty minutes. Its takes me to a whole different level. It excites me, inspires me. (Full disclosure: it sometimes makes me teary eyed, leaving me trying to camouflage the tears as sweat). And if the incredibly beautiful pitches and perfect harmonic tones are not enough, towards the end of the song he stops singing and just talks to her. He talks for five minutes of the song. At one point he begs“If I could just/If I could just see you/Can’t really say what you mean or what you want over the phone/I swear I miss you/You’ve done heard it ten times or more but/I swear I done changed/I swear I done changed.”

Listen to those words. It’s not the validity in what he’s saying that is so on point for me. Has he changed? Probably not. This man is saying whatever he can to get back into his woman’s good graces. He goes from “I’ve changed”, to” I’ve got a gig” to “I won the lottery”. Nothing in what he is saying logically flows. The point is, his words don’t have to necessarily be perfect. With perfection though he completely humbles himself for her. He puts his pride aside. I swear on this blog, if a man that I remotely still had feelings for just played this song for me because he was unable to find words of his own, without a second thought he’d be forgiven. I make this promise, so freely, because I know that men of my generation will never call my bluff. Men of my generation wouldn’t think to do this for a sole woman. Even if she is a soul woman.

* Neo-Soul definitely came to mind but it does not have the historical implication that R&B does.

**Please if you don’t know the songs I am referring to listen to them here, here and here. Even if you do, just go for the reminder.

Dont Let Me Fall

“What goes up must come down—but don’t let me fall, don’t let me fall.” I have heard these lyrics for months but last Friday as I listened the meaning of the words changed. Initially when I heard B.O.B sing “don’t let me fall,” I thought it was as simple as someone saying that while it was granted that they would fall, from fame, out of love, whatever, they didn’t want to. On Friday the message was more substantial. And I must say I don’t scout B.O.B’s music for anything substantive. The message I got though: everything has its cycle, and nothing stays the same, if something goes up by definition it must come down. Still, it doesn’t mean that thing has to fall. Instead the demise of it could be a little more subtle, a little more graceful. Maybe the message I got from the song was not the intended one. Maybe B.O.B. really just wants to defy gravity and not come down at all. I, on the other hand, expect that I will come down—I’m o.k. with that. It’s the falling part. I just wish they wouldn’t let me fall.

But still, I fell. And it was like the world stopped for me for that moment. It was tenth grade year, weeks after humiliatingly being broken up in an unequivocally unforgivable way. I fell. Literally. I could blame it on the rain. I had just walked into the building—the floor was wet and so were my shoes. Therefore, it had all the makings for a good fall. That’s probably the most logical explanation of why I took a tumble down a flight of at least fifteen steps. I think it was something much deeper than that though. It was deeper than just “I fell because my shoes happened to be wet”. I know it was more than that because as I landed at the feet of my ex-boyfriend and the girl that he broke up with me for, the fall was a literal crumble of all the facades that I had put up post break-up. I literally crumbled at the feet of the two people that every day I was trying to prove how fabulously well I was doing—despite them. And so there we were—the three of us, no one else in sight. It wasn’t the rain that brought me to these people’s feet though—it was the way the person that I trusted and knew so intimately—abruptly let go of my hand. He let me fall.

I have had many relationships that have ended. Contrary to my more recent antics—I don’t kick and scream at the conclusion of each of them. I do hate to see the various men go. But I willingly, sometimes encouragingly let them. I have figuratively fallen twice since that rainy day back in tenth grade. The first time I broke my own fall, quickly bouncing back—priding myself as resilient. The second—I laid there like a spoiled child waiting to see if someone was going to take notice and pick me up. Then after an eternity of laying there on the floor, waiting, I begrudgingly pulled my own self up. I didn’t fall because these relationships ended though—relationships end that’s probably one of the most natural aspects of life. I fall because I am caught off balance by how quickly the hand that was once in my palm goes back into the person’s pocket. More than the missing hand though—I am more devastated that the warm body that use to walk beside me, with me, has decided to just mid-step stop and walk in the opposite direction. So, even if the lack of the hand doesn’t throw me to the ground, the comprehension that someone would rather walk alone than with me is enough to slam me, face first, into the ground.

In previous posts I haven’t scratched the surface of my own contributions to my disappointment and heartache. It would be disingenuous here, however, to make statements of not understanding why someone would not want to walk with me. I understand. I would want to stop walking with me too. I am exhausting. Seriously. I literally demand all that a person has. I want to hold all that a person has—good and bad. I am all consuming like that. I am challenging and combative. And I am constantly trying to pull from people—from a deeply unrefined place, an untapped place. I am constantly touching places in people so deep that it’s almost inappropriate for me to be there. I know how to bring out the best in people but through my own motivation to do so can bring out the worst. I live passionately—and when I love—I do so with abandon. To be around that kind of tumultuous frenzy of intensity can turn a person inside out. To boot, I choose men that have their own complexities. In fact, it was here that I labeled them as “complicated” and “damaged”. And they are, I don’t take that back, but that’s why I’m attracted to them in the first place because they bring their own level of intensity to the equation. I give just as much as I get though, so if he is labeled as difficult I am no walk in the park either. So, while I may make references to the hurt that has been inflicted on me, I also know that to live like I do, jumping head first—I hurt myself just as much if not more than anyone could ever hurt me. I jump high therefore the impact coming down has to be of equal proportions.

And it could be said that I make it impossible to walk with me. I will do everything in my power to have the hand if I only have the warm body. I always want more. But still, even If they can’t hold my hand, or walk beside me, even if I make doing that impossible can’t they just walk behind me? Just walk behind me. At a safe distance—letting me know that they are far—but aren’t gone. This in itself would keep me upright. Just don't go completely. And after some time—when I have tired of sulkily stomping around then we can resume walking together—peacefully.

Still, why go through all the trouble just to ensure that I don’t fall? Why go through it just to walk with me? The answer is easy—because without a second thought I will get down on the ground with you when life has knocked you down. I won't just help you up, I will lay there with you for a while. Don’t let me fall because life is too harsh not to have someone like me around when you do.

Can I Have It Back, My Heart That Is

I was talking to my dad last night (who I still with affection call “daddy”and whenever I refer to him to others as “dad” it feels very misplaced). I am blessed to have parents that have always spoken to me like I was more than a daughter. It’s gotten us into some trouble along the way but I have learned so much from their minimalist censorship. Back to the conversation—he said something that struck me. He said, “little one, you really care”. Emphasis on the “really”. He went on to say that I give my heart to people. I don’t know if it was the context of the conversation (this past year’s jolt into adulthood, how people are such liars, and the reality that I have a lot more painful days ahead of me in my lifetime) or the way that he said it like it’s an anomaly, to actually care, that made me feel the need only minutes ago to draft this email:

I was talking to my dad last night and he said something that struck me. He said that I give my heart to people and that I actually care. He said it like it's an anomaly. Maybe it is. Well, he's right. So, Mr. can I have it back, my heart that is. One less person to have it. Thanks. It's greatly appreciated.

Erica

Now, Of course I did not send this email. (Well not really “of course” because it would be right in line with some of my other impulsive texts/emails/phone calls). As I wrote it though I didn’t even have an intention to send it to anyone. I didn’t send it to the man I should have or the other people who I have blindly given possession of my heart. I guess I didn’t because by them betraying my trust or too quickly walking away there is no need now to ask them for it back, my heart that is. I guess they forfeited it. I guess when I discovered that I gave it to them under their misrepresentation it voided the whole transaction. Heart magically reappears back in my chest. Bruised but back in place.

I understand that I am “sensitive”. And highly “emotional”. (My daddy’s words, but something I am well aware of). But he also said my caring nature juxtaposes (my word not his—he wasn’t an English major) the majority. He didn’t say it like I am right and other people are cold-hearted bastards for not being so giving. He said that everyone is just trying to make it in this world and that people take sensitivity, vulnerability for weakness. He said that when people feel that they can walk around hardened it makes them strong. I think he is right. I think these people are wrong.

I’m not here to discuss who’s stronger, the people who are all-giving with their hearts or the people who never release it. There’s really no contest. Both avenues will leave you hurt, wounded, and reeling in pain. Whichever way you slice it at the end of the day you get a pizza that is nicely cut. I carry the belief that all people, from a basic level, are good. I don’t believe that there are just evil people out here. Maybe, insane. Serial killers, not evil, just really really messed up. So, I am just trying to figure out what makes me so willing to give my heart and others so reluctant. Did I inherit it from my mother? I am seriously considering that as a possibility. If the people that have forfeited my heart are as equally good people as myself what is my heart in the equation, an unfortunate bystander? The one causality that ends up thrown to the side because I threw it out there and he/she was careless with it and threw it down.

The world is not a nice place. It is cold and there are more frequently heartbreaking things that happen than heart filling. Although as cynical as that seems I guess the thing is people do the things that they do-- give a heart or break a heart because everyone is trying to stay true to themselves and as daddy said make it in this messed up world. I give my heart because I care too much about others. That’s my choice. Someone else, on the other hand, only cares about himself because that’s his choice. All day I can ridicule him for being a self-absorbed jerk and he criticize me for being a careless idiot but at the end of the day we are two good people, just going through life differently.

But then again, regardless of how I rationalize the behavior of people who hurt others, rather intentionally or negligently-- Speaking as someone who really tries not to hurt anyone, be straight up and honest, those that aren’t are really really---sucky people. All consideration for their ill-intentioned motivations out the window.

P.S. Thanks for letting my heart go so I can give it to someone better.

The Definition of a Soul Mate

I have been quite slack on my postings as of late. I haven't had the right inspiration to write and quite frankly have been inspired in other aspects and on other projects in my life. I have a full week ahead that I can already foresee as ripe fodder for some manic crazed emotional woman writing. In addition, I am currently stewing on messages from inspirational books, inspirational songs, inspirational conversations, and inspirational people. All to say, I will be back soon. I'm just marinating.

In the mean time I will leave you with this: I was having a conversation last night with some truly amazing people. We were talking about life, love, relationships (the typical over twenty-one default conversation) and I distinctly remember the cliche of soul mates being brought up. I don't think we ever reached a conclusion. I could write a post on it but instead I will let someone who so beautifully articulated it speak on it. This will be a passage that I know I will continuously return to throughout my life. It is a passage that speaks not to my brain but to my soul. And I will forever look at the ideal of soul mates differently.

"'But I really loved him.' 'Big deal. So you fell in love with someone. Don't you see what happened? This guy touched a place in your heart deeper than you thought you were capable of reaching, I mean you got zapped, kiddo. But that love you felt, that's just the beginning. You just got a taste of love. That's just limited rinky-dink mortal love. Wait till you see how much more deeply you can love than that. Heck,Groceries--you have the capacity to someday love the whole world. It's your destiny. Don't laugh.'"

"'I'm not laughing.' I was actually crying. 'And please don't laugh at me now, but I think the reason it's so hard for me to get over this guy is because I seriously believed David was my soul mate.'"

"'He probably was. Your problem is you don't understand what that word means. People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it. Your problem is, you just can't let this one go. It's over, Groceries. David's purpose was to shake you up, drive you out of that marriage that you needed to leave, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light could get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you had to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master and beat it. That was his job, and he did great, but now it's over.'"

-Groceries and Richard from Texas

"I want you to fight for me"

“What do you want Erica?” he asked. I wish I hadn’t been so drunk so that I could have beautifully articulated my response. It was the first and last time he seemed genuinely open to discussing what I wanted. Prior to this horribly drunken night of shamefully peeing in alleys and crying in the street he was evasive. After it, he had secretly made up his mind that it wasn’t going to work. That night I didn’t, couldn’t, speak artfully. I wasn’t too drunk. I was too emotional. So, I spoke from my heart. “I want you to fight for me”, I threw at him. He laughed. I wasn’t laughing, instead my face was still streaked with tears from earlier. He probably thought the alcohol had gotten the best of me, that I was incomprehensible. I knew what I was saying. I was very clear. If he was a fighter he would have understood too. But he wasn’t so he didn’t. And if he asked what I wanted again today I would say the same exact thing. “I want you to fight for me.”

I have this bad habit of fighting. I will fight tooth and nail. I will run myself in the ground fighting for him and if I see any headway, however small, I keep throwing punches. I play tug of war with him, with myself and I don’t exhaust. Not even a little. Even after he has grown tired I am still there trying to hold everything together, I’m not exhausted. I’m rejuvenated envisioning the end result, us happy. I will have earned my happiness because I fought for it. I’ve grown up and come to find I’m not fighting the good fight. Instead, it’s a bloody war. When I finally look up from beating this man in the stomach with my head buried in his chest I realize he’s just standing there. I realize he isn’t embracing me, not fighting back. He’s just standing there, just waiting for me to stop fighting. And then when I do, finally, all’s quiet. It’s calm. The fight is over because he was never fighting in the first place. I stand there bloody, sweat mixed with tears, eyes red. I realize that I have exhausted myself, once again with someone who stands on the other side unscathed.

The Notebook, a widely popular Nicholas Sparks book turned film, has become a movie on many women’s “favorites” list. The first time I watched it, sitting next to a high school boyfriend, it quickly became one of my favorites. I knew I was watching the ultimate love story--one that me and him would one day reenact. His departure date to college was fast approaching. I understood that while we might lose each other to the distance we would ultimately be led back to one another--it was fate. He went to Hampton University a month later and I soon came to realize we weren’t characters from a movie. We will never reenact that movie, or any other for that matter.

Every time I watch The Notebook the optimist in me, the Carrie Bradshaw of me gets giddy at the ideal of innocent uncomplicated love being undestroyed by distance, time, and reality. Every time I watch, the realist, the Samantha Jones in me, however, out-talks Carrie. Samantha tells me that these kinds of love stories are only meant for cinematic experiences. Carrie’s voice drowns out and I willingly lay in the cynicism of Samantha’s.

I am Noah Calhoun of The Notebook. Seventeen year old Noah selflessly and maturely frees Allie, the girl he loves, from his grip to enable her personal growth. He fights for her. Years later Noah builds Allie the dream house she spoke of as a seventeen year old girl. He builds a replica of her description. Noah believes that if he fights to make her dream a reality maybe their dream can be one as well. He fights. He fights for the entire duration of their relationship. He fights from the day he meets her until the very last. He initially fights, tirelessly, to convince her that he is worth having. He fights, tirelessly, to convince her that he is worth keeping. The movie concludes with an elderly Allie suffering from dementia. Noah fights to make her remember their love story. When she remembers he fights for her not to forget it. I am Noah Calhoun of The Notebook. Always fighting.

Anyone who has a certain distaste for the movie I’ve noticed has one main complaint: it’s unrealistic. I agree. The story, the journey of the character’s love is unrealistic. The love, Noah’s fighting is not. There is nothing more real than that kind of tragic love. The moment the story spirals from reality to fantasy is identifiable. The moment? Noah and Allie reuniting and magically deciding to fight together. If it was a documentary Noah would still be sitting in that perfect white house, waiting. Alone. He would have gone crazy waiting for the one person he loves to throw him just one punch. In real life there’s only one person ready for war, the other has long thrown up a white flag. The other person never returns the fight. The other person takes a more convenient road. The other person has learned that if it’s not convenient to be with the one you love then you conveniently love the one you’re with. Hopefully the fighter learns to take off their boxing gloves and do the same.

He took me for drunk, when I said “I want you to fight for me” not because my words were slurred but because what I was saying was out of the scope of his comprehension. It was not his reality to fight for a woman. If it wasn’t easy then it was over. If it seemed impossible then it was. I’m a natural fighter. I make no apologies for that. I don’t chase, I’m not delusional—I ‘m a fighter, that’s a difference the majority will sadly never understand. After I’ve wiped the sweat and tears from my face and exited the ring I look back at him still lifelessly standing there. As I look back, I don’t regret the fight in me. I regret the lack of it in him.

Love Fades As Distance Grows

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” I remember the first time my mother told me this. I think it was when I was in tenth grade and had got broken up with for the very first time. My heart literally hurt for weeks. It was awful. At that time I believed my mother’s cliché because it was much better than the alternative. The alternative being that distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, that it just makes it forget. Eight years later I see that she lied. And I appreciate the lie. I appreciate it because I was much too young for the harsh reality. I appreciate the lie because the alternative means that the thing that I advocate most in relationships doesn’t really work. The alternative: love fades as distance grows.

I love long distance relationships. Correction: I loved long distance relationships. I believed in them the way children believe in Santa. I was aware of the challenges but confident the benefits far outweighed them. I saw it as an avenue that surprisingly strengthened relationships. It allowed couples creativity in keeping that spark ,which was losing its luminosity, alive. It switched things up. It added mystery, when both parties had become complacent. They were forced to actually, really, get to know each other. There was only conversation to fill the distance. No longer was physical presence a distraction. Instead of hugs, kisses, and sex there was an added element of innocence to their reintroduction. They were like children, finding out what his favorite color is and what she wants to be when she grows up. And when they were reunited both stupefied that this distance, in fact, brought them closer.

And then I grew up and I understood that there was no man coming down my chimney and that as soon as me and the person I care for part, it’s positively the beginning of the end. I was rudely awakened that unless I am in his face he will have selective memory, unable to remember who we were together, how good we were. But maybe I’m just forgettable because two attempts and two failures tell me so. And I would be alright with that. I would understand that there is something wrong with me or maybe even the men I choose. I could still believe in the distance, still find solace in it. I wish absence just didn’t make his heart grow fonder. I could accept that.

I want to believe in it so bad. I want to believe in it the way Southerners believe in God. I want to believe because even if marriages fall apart, and people die, and the world is corrupt there’s still hope in this basic level of goodness. The world can still offer this. There’s still hope in this basic level of dedication. There’s still hope that even in a generation where we are indulgent and accustom to luxury we will still go through hardship because the person we care about is worth it. We fight for the people we care about. I want to believe in distance because then I can believe in love.

And now I am hopeless. Now I don’t believe. Not because of my failed attempts. I mean, I pick complicated damaged men so I can’t really expect much. I am hopeless because she deserved so much more. My friend picked the right guy, grounded, upright, nice, political, intelligent, capable of love, and three weeks ago she tells me that yet again another long distance relationship has failed. The saga continues. It happens this way every time, just as I have completely lost faith in the distance I had formerly prayed to, a friend starts their own journey through it. I silently call them a fool to try. I wait for the inevitable day when they tell me it’s over. Weeks go by, then months. The relationship is still in tack. The relationship, stronger than ever? I stand corrected. I get a continuous stream of stories on travels across state lines. I listen and live vicariously through their glow. As my faith is building, however, their relationship is secretly waning.

This is a tragedy that is occurring every day. The tragedy? Couples are allowing something as flexible an inconsistent as distance and space dictate their hearts. Presence is only a figment of our imaginations. Instead of blaming the distance maybe we should become more imaginative. I cannot comprehend allowing someone that the universe has given me go because it becomes inconvenient. I cannot want someone in my life that cannot battle distance to have me in his. I want to go through distance with a man because then I know he loves me even when it’s inconvenient. And that’s the kind of man that I will love forever, a man strong enough to love me inconveniently. I am honored to go through this with him because there are so few men that resonate the joy in my spirit that makes distance a gift.

But for now, I guess I will just ebb and flow with everyone else. I will believe what they tell me. It doesn’t work. And when my friend, one of the best women I know tells me that she is going to move to Toronto Canada because that’s where her love is I instinctually want to tell her not to. I want to tell her that she is gorgeous and amazing and that the distance should only make them stronger and if not he isn’t the one. I don’t tell her that though. I’ve lost faith, so instead I ask when she’s leaving.