So this story really isn’t about the one time I dated a friend that I shouldn’t have dated although you might ascertain that from what I’m about to tell you. That’s one of the morals of the stories. The main moral of the story is that DJ’s are sometimes psychic.
It all started when I was on the rebound from this dude that stayed in my heart way longer than he should have. It’s not totally his fault. In fact, it’s not any ex-flame’s fault if they stay with you longer than you want them to. It’s yours. You have to learn how to pink slip motherf*ckas. It’s true. Anyways, cursed ex-flippant bastard (ha! That felt good even now though this was years ago!) was chilling in my heart without calling me again and a friend of mine who fit the doable profile (tall, dark, dreadlocs, bohemian, blah blah) started calling me. He himself was on the rebound from some faux Yoruban priestess who may or may not have run over his feelings with a garbage truck. I wasn’t there so I don’t know. But I do know that we were two wounded friends who, one minute were getting together to celebrate my birthday, and the next minute eating fried fruit off each other’s fingers. Right! I know! WTF?
From the beginning there was a little man on my shoulder cursing me out for actually entertaining the thought of going down the doing-your-friend road. But I just assumed it was the ex-flippant-laissez faire bastard who could care less. I mean their voices were the same. You’re going to tell me, I know, that plenty of friends get together and it turns out wonderful with them skipping down the aisle throwing roses at people and retreating to some PBS lifestyle. There’s a fundamental difference between my experience and that one: we were friends having sex who didn’t have the “what is going on here conversation” clearly enough for both of us to clear the space for anything real to happen. It’s true. We were both in pain; we were both putting our opaque ideas of intimacy on each other. It was a mess the mafia couldn’t clean up. I mean you could’ve found Hoffa if you dug deeply into our issues.
All that is fine and good. I mean these things happen. You can’t beat yourself up for being open because there are plenty of Kookoo For Coco Puffs out there who insist that they want a real relationship but keep sending their carefully made up representative in their place when it comes time to show yourself. So I don’t mind that I was wading in crap for a little bit. So, how, you ask, did two raw emotional confused wounded individuals finally hit the Berlin wall running, you ask? He may tell you differently and that’s fine because that’s what makes the world go ‘round. I say it started with a lie. A little side note about me: I’m very skilled at defending those who never asked to be defended. I love making excuses and rationalizing to avoid confrontation (for the most part) BUT once you lie, it’s over. I got enough liars running the country. I don’t need your less-creative bull.
So he lied. And then he fronted like he didn’t lie. And I kinda have to say what he lied about (even though I don’t want to get all into personal details because this is more about what’s about to happen a few paragraphs from now). I referred him to a great vocal coach’s class. He loves said class. Tells me that I’m invited to the recital at the end of said class. He asks me to pick up sheet music for said class. He drifts during said class. He has recital for said class. Guess who wasn’t invited? Right! Now, ladies (and some dudes), what does that tell your spidey sense? Hmm? Yes! He met a girl during said class! You get a gold star in the mail if you guessed that. So any whoodley who, I, being the black woman that I am (however that happened), opened my mouth and called it. Big fight. Blah Blah. Forget you then…I can’t believe you…This was never that…That was never this…I don’t have to go on because everyone has had this conversation with somebody before.
I spend months pissed at myself. Why? Because the little man on my shoulder was not my ex-flippant rat bastard BUT my common sense (see how things get freaking crazy if you don’t evict people? You get all screwy!). No, you don’t start doing it to friends who are as wounded as you are. No, you don’t start entertain ideas of longevity if said person says his perfect ideal is Hagar from Toni Morrison’s “Song of Solomon” and you are more Toni than Hagar (read: way more regular/boring than the character). Yes, you do start to wonder when homeboy, during one of your ENDLESS phone conversations, says he doesn’t really think of you as a person but more as the voice in his head. Um…Yes, you do get mad when somebody lies/disrespects you. You have that right. Life is too short to worry about what the other person will think of you. Because, if you are really friends (and he and I are), you will find something better than what wasn’t meant for you. In our case, it was a dating thing. Not meant for us. At all. All good though because it made room for his wonderful wifey and my wonderful hubby.
But back to how the DJ saved my life…with a song (I have to say the whole thing for some reason). A few months after the LIE planted itself in the messy chaos we called “seeing each other kinda,” I was still pissed at being lied too. Not pissed at him. But pissed at injustice. I couldn’t figure out how people could walk around and, in the immortal words of Molly Ringwald from “The Breakfast Club”, “dump all these tremendous lies” all over the place. I wanted justice! I wanted public ridicule. I wanted…well, I also wanted to not feel bamboozled by somebody who didn’t really have the potential to be my life mate (nor I his). I got duped. I hate feeling duped. I feel duped as an armchair activist; don’t let it spread to my life. So I go to this party for a common friend (who remained like Switzerland—but he also introduced me to Yaze so that’s fair) and I had a feeling that homeboy was going to be there. I went because sometimes facing your anger/fear is the best way to make yourself over it. Confrontation. It’s the hardest thing but it may also mean that you will release yourself. It takes a lot of red wine and courage, but more wine. So I’m there, dancing, blah blah, saying what’s up to folks, looking okay. And that’s when it happens. I look over and see homeboy dancing with his new girl and they are happy! Joyous! And what does the DJ play? The best mix of Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good.” And it was like the heavens opened up in the East Village because I could breathe. And forgive. And realize that I didn’t want to hold on to it anymore. Did he see me? No, but that’s okay. Because with the beat of the song, I sauntered up the stairs of the club and just as the song ended, I was out the door.
I don’t even know who the DJ was. Nor does it matter. What I do know is that DJ is psychic. Out of all the psycho dramas going on in that room, he/she chose mine to address, giving me permission to walk to the train, laughing and proud. You see, that’s the goal in all of this love/life stuff:
Birds flying high you know how I feel
Sun in the sky you know how I feel
Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel
(refrain:)
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new dayIt’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good
Fish in the sea you know how I feel
River running free you know how I feel
Blossom in the tree you know how I feel
(refrain)
Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don’t you know
Butterflies all havin’ fun you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done
That’s what I mean
And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me
Stars when you shine you know how I feel
Scent of the pine you know how I feel
Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel
And with that, congratulations to Kerry and Irvin and Kyara Marchand for welcoming their newest addition: Kennedy Kristina Marchand! She’s got a whole lot of love already…
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guess i showed up right on time.
Comment by Nyaze the Fiance — April 13, 2006 @ 1:55 pm
fried fruit???
Comment by sara the friend — April 13, 2006 @ 2:10 pm
sara the friend,
it was THAI! they fry everything…like black people…
Comment by scruffdiva — April 13, 2006 @ 2:14 pm
Why do we do it? Next topic: apartment life or how my complex isn’t like melrose place
Comment by Webstar — April 16, 2006 @ 12:52 am