Love – Bené Viera

Love

June 27, 2019

Falling

Ten years from now I wonder if I’ll look back at this moment fondly or regretfully. Will I feel like I was handled properly or played? Made a risky decision that was true to what my heart desired, or an unwise one where I should’ve known better?

In this moment my mind drifts, circling around other questions I can’t really answer: Did sex put an expiration on the friendship we’d carefully built? Was our passionate love starting to weigh heavy on your heart because you wanted to do right? And did that mean doing us was wrong? Could we make it out of this thing without anybody getting hurt? And why did I care so much?

I’d forgotten that falling in love has phases. It’d been five years since I felt both the pleasure and fear and beauty of falling.

In the first phase your heart skips a beat every time his name pops up on your phone. You grin from ear to ear as you chat about everything and nothing. You want to know every inch of him, and hope he asks all the right questions to find out every part of you. He does. The sweet texts, the effort, his wanting to make you smile comes natural. It’s never forced. You never want your time together to end. The vibe isn’t something either of you have found anywhere else. The spark could cause a fire. There’s intimacy without sex. Cheek kisses, holding hands, putting your head on his chest, two souls soaking up each other’s energy from what is undeniably an organic connection. He seems so rare you place him on a pedestal, deluding yourself by placating him as a god.

But men are not gods. Not even close.

In phase two of falling, reality sets in. You’re still mostly happy every time his name flashes across your screen. You’ve made unforgettable days and nights that you’ll always look back on fondly. Getting high on rooftops. Expensive lunch dates. Sharing secrets. Listening to a smooth brother sing while playing the guitar. A Drake and Future concert here, a trip to Vegas there. And finally sex. Amazing sex. Bathroom sex. Sex so intimate neither person is being smart because it feels too good. You’re sad when he leaves to go home. You hold on to every time he said, “Don’t leave me.”

Now that sex has complicated what is the most beautiful and purest emotion, your mind does overtime to convince you what you’re feeling isn’t real. Somewhere along the line you remembered you’re the god if there is one between you.

It’s now phase three. You’re coming down from the high of phase one and two. By now you’ve had some miscommunications and hurt feelings. You’ve both experienced jealousy at least once when neither of you have the right to express that emotion. You’ve intentionally said some hurtful things; he’s unintentionally done the same. You no longer answer every time he texts or calls because his effort seems to have changed. Maybe it actually hasn’t, but you’ve convinced yourself that things are different. You hate feeling like this. Vulnerability doesn’t suit you. The lack of emotional control because love has taken over makes you go out on dates with other men to try to shake your true feelings. You’re disgusted that you’re afraid he’s slipping away when you’re the one pushing him away.

You snap out of it. You’ve been reminded he’s just a man. And men are selfish. He’s going to look out for himself and you have to do the same.

You take longer to respond back, not because you’re playing a game but you’re making sure you have a life outside of him. You’re busier now. Him as well. Text convos are shorter because of work; you’re convinced it’s something else. Lunch dates are hard to squeeze in. There’s talks about one of you leaving to live 3,000 miles apart. You wonder if he even wants you to stay. Everything has a perpetual question mark now. You know he feels what you feel, but you question if he has the capacity to. You worry so much about what he’s thinking and feeling you have to remind yourself to prioritize what you want and need.

Years ago daddy told me he didn’t believe in falling in love. His reason why was simple: If you can fall in love you can fall out of love. He believed you loved people and it was a choice by choosing them every single day. I understood then and I understand now. Love was a choice attached to an action— choosing. But I still believed in falling. Falling in love was just as real as the choice to love.

Falling in love is the most beautiful and terrifying thing. When you’ve been handled with such little care, have been broken by love, you tend to focus on the terrifying. Because what if they don’t feel the same. Aren’t all the signs there that you’re in this alone? And what if they hurt you, does that mean it wasn’t real? Can you really do this all over again with somebody else? And what happens to the love when you can’t stay?

So, ten years from now how will I look at this moment? It’s hard to say. But I hope I’ll be content with the memory of falling, and how good it felt to give love in what was the best of times and worst of times.

Falling is fleeting. Love doesn’t always stay. If you’re lucky, the memories will be enough.

Love

June 27, 2019

A Woman I Used to Know

I once knew a woman who thought she’d never love again. Somehow she’d managed to touch the hem of love’s garment again. Her first love after believing she’d never love again had healed her in some ways, but also swallowed her whole.

Loving men who never stayed had eaten her flesh, devoured her soul, and rendered her cripple. She had said goodbye to all that love stuff as she taught herself to walk again.

Three years post-rehab, love found its way back home. It was the kind of ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t live without each other love Carrie realized she didn’t have with the Russian. The kind of love the Vocal Bible and legends belt out in ballads. A love so palpable strangers caught its whiff from afar.

It was also the kind of love that brought her no peace. The kind of love doomed before the words were ever said.

This love was unfamiliar, unlike any other love she’d experienced with ghosts of lovers past. While the love felt real and mature and grown, she — and anyone who knew — could easily question its veracity. Their opinions caused her to doubt what she knew to be true in her heart. And it was perhaps this very thing that eventually drove her mad.

Loving him felt like breathing. But it was the details around their love that made her lose her hair and vomit and bleed and whither into bones with useless limbs. Her spirit was rejecting this kind of love despite the important lesson it had arrived to teach: She could love again.

One day over whiskey and ginger ale she described it to me as such:

It was the kind of love that keeps you waiting by the phone. Where goodnight texts are sent once everybody in the house are in bed, or right before he lays down in bed next to someone else. The kind where quality time always revolved around moments he could steal away. A love where you avoided certain questions because the answer would always have details omitted and info you don’t want to know. It was the kind of love that meant he could never spend the night even if he stayed until six in the morning. A love where birthdays and holidays were celebrated, just not with you. It was the kind of love that meant listening to him talk about having more children that would never be birthed by you. A love where your weekends were spent alone while his filled with kids’ birthday parties and weddings and family vacations. It was a somewhat hidden love. A love you can’t show the world but have a front row seat at witnessing. It was the kind of love where secrets were necessary. And lies par for the course. A kind of love where being sick meant nothing if he couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to slip away to see about you. A love where outsiders questioned your self-worth but never his. It was the kind of love that required knowing your role. The most devastating part of this kind of love, she said, was forcing yourself to be somebody you’re not by telling yourself you’re ok with things you were never going to be ok with.

Her voice shook as she explained this complicated, twisted, equal parts beautiful and dark, kind of love as she leaned on the window sill.

After I silently prayed the universe kept this kind of love away from me and my daughters and their daughters, I asked, “Why stay when this kind of love clearly is not enough?”

She looked away, blowing smoke out of the second floor window.

“Because I love him.”

Love

March 23, 2017

Insomnia

The sun will soon rise. I flip from one side to the other trying to find comfort. My knee hits the laptop that rests in its new home on the right side of the bed where you’d fall asleep before me every night. Pushing the electronics further to what used to be your side of the bed remind me I’m alone again.

Your scent still lingers on the sheets. More proof that your arms used to snuggle me in the place that’s now vacant. The laughter that once echoed off the walls has been replaced by a haunting silence. In hindsight your incessant snoring doesn’t seem so bad after all. Insomnia is my new best friend.

My bed is my sanctuary from the weariness of the ways of the world, but lately it’s a pestering reminder of another failed relationship, of being alone again. The act of undressing, wiping off the day’s makeup and climbing into bed brings about questions without answers. Do I really miss you or am I just lonely? Is it being used to your presence that I miss or your absence?

There is a difference.

Spring is here. The season of bloom. Days pass by seamlessly. Nights get easier. Sleep still eludes me, but aloneness feels ok.

Some nights I switch it up, letting the iPad and MacBook rest on my desk instead of next to me. I undress and let the duvet cover warm my body. Your scent no longer greets me. I lie on my stomach before facing the window. I’ve convinced myself I’ll be happy and fulfilled if I have to live the rest of my life with the right side of the bed empty. Because at 32 it’s a hard truth one must reconcile with.

One rainy night I stared at the ceiling listening to the water hit my window sills. I had an answer to those pesky questions. I miss you only because I’m lonely. I stayed when I should’ve left because I’m lonely. I blame the loneliness of the city for why we were together when we were doomed from the start. And I blame the loneliness of the city for why we held on too long.

I stretch out my arm across the gaping space on what’s no longer your side of the bed. The sun is beginning to light the sky. I close my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep.

Life, Love

October 28, 2015

Unforgettable

Men’s feelings are detonating all around me. In the past week three men have randomly and unexpectedly told me they have never stopped loving me.

I went home for six days because my mom was being honored as the former Alumni Director, a position she held for nearly 12 years. It was also my alma mater’s homecoming so running into my old work was inevitable. Friday night was a bust because the one party that was popping had a ridiculously long line. I don’t do lines. Agenda was dead but at least I’d get to catch up on all the southern music that I never get to hear in NYC. (NYC DJs, please go to down south clubs to learn what songs to play at a party. Please.) Within five minutes we had drinks sent to us (and more offered) by different dudes. The beauty of southern men. I’d noticed an old flame spitting his best game to the bottle waitress. He denied it but he was clearly intrigued. Eventually he saw me and it was a scene. Him ushering me over to his section where his squad had ordered bottle service. A long hug. Him whispering in my ear. Me giggling in my royal blue pants jumpsuit, dancing as I walked. “That’s the Bené I know,” he quipped.

For over 30 minutes he rattled off his feelings along with questions. He wanted to know why he’d never been able to “get me.” We’d talked when I was in college. It never went anywhere. No kissing, no sleepovers, not much of anything other than phone calls. But here we were in the club talking over “What’s A Goon to a Goblin.” It was flirty banter at first. Then he got serious. “I love you, Bené. I’ve never stopped loving you. I’m in love with you.” You don’t even know me. Then I noticed the wedding ring on his left finger. That wasn’t there when I’d seen him at a different club last year during the holidays.

“Is that a wedding ring?”

“Yeah. I got married four months ago. I’m not gonna lie to you. I’ve never lied to you. That doesn’t change that I love you. Can we please go get something to eat after this?”

He knew the answer was going to always be no. It was no last year when he wasn’t married. It was definitely no now.

*******

That same night my first love told my homegirl he was coming to meet her at the same club we were at. “Ummm, Bené is with me,” she texted him. “Good. I want to see her.” The bouncer wouldn’t let him in with his hat so we never saw each other. A few days after I got back to BK I FB messaged him a one sentence question. Instead of answering my question he typed his number. I took that as a yes to my question because if it was no he would’ve said that, right? We sent a couple short exchanges back and forth before all of his feelings came out.

I will always care deeply for you Bené. I honestly think of you daily. I visit your website periodically just to feel close to you. No matter what happened between us I have always respected the fact that I know you genuinely showed me LOVE in the way you show someone your purest form of LOVE…and I did not nurture it in the manner it deserved…That is one of my few regrets…

The message was much longer, but that was the gist. I didn’t understand. We’d not been together since I was 17. We’ve had few real conversations in the past 13 years. Where was all this coming from?

*******

There’s another ex with much of the same sentiment. We were awful for each other. He cheated. We’d tussle. Disrespect was the norm. He’d call me a bitch, I’d call him a ho. He did some damn near unforgivable shit. We were wild and toxic and in love. And yes, I consider dysfunctional love, love. In July of 2014 he started sending me FB messages with soliloquies about how sorry he is, how I am the one, how his mom still asks for me, how he’ll drive to NYC just to see me, how he just wishes he knew then what he knows now. His exact words in the first message he sent was, “I hate that I messed up with u! I still love u no matter how many chicks I b with! I think about u all the time. Plz talk to me. I wish u the best. I care about u so much!!! We had bad times but I don’t think about them times I just only [think about] the good times. Can u plz write sumthing back plz!!!???????”

For years I had him blocked on my personal FB page so he’d just send messages to my author FB page. I’d ignore. Eventually I’d respond with a simple, “I hope you’re well.” I’d get 26 messages in return. I don’t hate the dude. I just have no interest in really talking to him. I thought ending my ignore method would ease his curiosity and he’d give up. Not at all. He’s messaged me as recent as September 28 and I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend. It’s been five years and two relationships later since I’ve seen or spoken to him.

Having men pour their hearts out to you — whether in the club or on FB — is supremely strange.

I’m a firm believer of: “If you’re a halfway decent woman, he’ll come back. They always come back.” I’ve said this since I started dating in my late teens. It’s not exactly surprising that most of my exes have tried to come back or that men I used to date still want a chance. The ones who never had me still want that achievement. The ones who did, well, I can’t quite figure out what their deal is. But it makes me wonder why men don’t come to these conclusions sooner. Why the apologies take a decade. Why can’t they get it together when they still have you.

Let any of them tell it way back when, I would’ve been described with some unpleasant adjectives. “I can’t win for losing with you” or “you don’t trust me” are phrases I’ve heard from probably all my exes but one. And they weren’t necessarily wrong for feeling that way, but if I was all those things, why all the confessions years later? Why the daily thoughts of me? Why all the reassurance that I was/am a good woman? (Of course I am!) Why not feel like good riddance to her?

Part of me doesn’t understand having feelings for someone 10+ years later because I’ve never gone back to an ex. When I’m done I’m done. It may take a while for me to get there but there’s never any coming back once I’ve reached the point of you-no-longer-exist-to-me. There is not one man that I still have feelings for or still love. I’m a firm believer in moving forward in life — with everything — not backward. So the idea of harboring feelings for someone for a decade is unimaginable to me. Which leads me to the theory that men don’t take the time to heal after a breakup so they never truly get over certain exes. Men tend to trade the tears, depression and weight gain/loss for hoeing. While women usually mourn breakups, self-reflect and better themselves before moving on to the next man, men find something new to get up under. Fast. Hence why when women are finally done, we’re done. And why men are still confessing feelings decades later.

Of course this theory is only anecdotal. I don’t know that any of this means anything. Or that I even have a point. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to know men I once loved still have fond feelings of me when I was often Public Enemy No. 1 while we were together. To admit that they messed up and didn’t nurture the love I gave is very mature thing to do. It’s appreciated. And if I’m being really real it’s validating in a ego-driven way. It’s nice to be unforgettable.

Life, Love

October 14, 2015

The Spark

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about spark — how important it is and whether it must exist for me to develop feelings for a man.

I met a boy. He’s a for real grown man, actually. He reads. Travels. He has the prettiest green eyes I’ve ever seen on a man. He listens. He’s tallish and cornbread-fed like I like ’em. He has no problem spending money. Plans great dates. Calls or texts every day. He’s consistent. I can be myself around him. And we have fun together. But The Spark is nonexistent. I don’t want to kiss him at the end of the night. I don’t want to see what’s under the black leather jacket that highlights his chiseled arms. I don’t know that I’d want to cuddle with him after a drunken night of too many Jacks and ginger.

What is wrong with me?

He’s not the first. In the last year there’ve been many suitors. One that I liked, we had The Spark. Some were cool to be the homie. Some had epic flaws that I didn’t have the patience to overlook. Others were great guys on paper but that damned spark never showed up.

What exactly is The Spark? I don’t know. But you know when it’s there and you know when it’s not. It’s the thing that makes you giddy like a middle school girl with acne when your phone vibrates and it’s him. It’s when you talk on the phone for hours and one person has to force the other to hang up first. It’s your face lighting up when telling your girlfriends how much he’s into you. It’s blushing when he calls you baé or babe. It’s cowing over in embarrassment when a piece of lettuce is in your tooth because you want him to only see you looking flawless. It’s the organic connection like you can talk about anything — and you do — and it feels like you’ve known him your whole life. It just is. And when it ain’t, it ain’t.

I’ve had The Spark with every man I’ve been in a relationship with. I think. All those relationships ended within two years, all those relationships had some dysfunctional qualities. The chemistry and passion varied from man to man, but there was no doubt that thing that you can’t describe but you know you need it. Now I’m thinking maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe The Spark, and too much of it, is the problem.

At 30, I don’t know if it’s smart to rule out dudes solely because The Spark is missing in action.

On my first date with Green Eyes my girls texted the next day to see how it went.

“We stayed out until 3AM.”

“Yasssssss!”

“He opened all doors. Wore a suit jacket and hard bottoms. Was on time. Took me to Chef Roble’s restaurant, Streets BK, in Williamsburg. We never pulled our phones out in the three hours we were at the restaurant. Went to his friend’s new bar. Then went to Bed-vyne before calling it a night. It was a perfect date.”

“OMG. You about to be cuffed before cuffing season.”

“There’s no spark. I don’t think I’m ever going to like anybody ever again. I’m gonna cut him off.”

“Girl, what??? Maybe the chemistry thing will change. Just wait and see.”

“That’s not how this works. That’s not how any of this works. If it ain’t there it ain’t there.”

“Sigh.”

Dating is bizarre, man. I, an intelligent human being who loves love, am considering 86ing a guy because The Spark isn’t fireworks. It’s not even the ‘hood fire crackers the kids pop on any given summer night.

Or maybe I’ll keep him around and instead of The Spark we’ll have mutual respect with minimum to no conflicts and it’ll be the the healthiest situation I’ve ever had with a man I’m dating.

A girl can dream.

Life, Love

June 4, 2015

Today

I saw your friend today walking down Nostrand Ave. We did that awkward dance of not being douchebaggy enough to pretend we didn’t know each other, but not sure what to say since our only connection was you. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he yelled, pointing to my Aquamarine and baby blue hair before we embraced. I awkwardly asked him if he and his fiancé had married, not knowing what else to say. “Not yet.” Luckily he was on the phone. I don’t think we could’ve walked away from each other fast enough.

I’m happy they’re still together. I can’t help but think how we are not.

It’s not fair.

I want to scream it for the world to hear. The words bubble up in the pit of my aching stomach, planting themselves in my heart. The one that’s broken. The one I’m not sure will ever work again. The one I can’t imagine loving anyone else with because I can’t bare the thought of love then loss.

Hours after bumping in to your boy I scrolled Instagram. On one of our mutual “friend’s” post I saw you wishing a beautiful girl happy birthday. “Thank you love,” she wrote back. You both followed each other shortly after that exchange. I closed out the app. I cannot escape you. Yet you are not here.

Our ghosts haunt this city. No place feels safe. Too many memories. All of them lingering, none fading away. I have done everything but spells and magic to make them disappear.

Every time well-meaning friends offer the misguided equivalent of “Let go, move on, or fuck him,” I want to yell at them. Somehow I’m the only one that understands a death has occurred. Do they not see all the signs of loss and grief? How could they not. The world tells us, especially us women folk, to let go lest we become Bitter Bettys. “Let that hurt go, ma!” is a popular insult tossed around on social media when women express any type of emotion. People’s pain is funny to many. And we wonder why everyone’s afraid to feel.

It’s not fair.

There have been men. They are intrigued. Who is this woman who laughs loudly, says exactly what she means, is confident in her talents and commands the attention of a room? Their curiosity does not hold my interest. I am bored. No one has shown me anything close to an organic chemistry I once knew.

One wanted to cuddle. No sex. I let him. Between my sheets his arms around my waist felt like mere weight suffocating me. He was cute. We’d hung out a lot. Always had fun. Kissed. But I was repulsed by cuddling with him. I was happy to scurry him off the next morning. He offered to take me to breakfast. I declined. He still calls. I never answer.

Another just wanted sex. I did too. That’s the end of that story.

The others are but a footnote. They will have had no lasting impact other than to remind me that I am wanted at a time I needed to feel wanted.

Oddly, I am the happiest I’ve ever been. For my 30th birthday, the one you pretended to forget, I traveled through Rome. And Florence. Best trip of my life. One of the best times of my life.

I spend a lot of time alone. It’s good for me. I have fallen in love with myself. Maybe that’s the best gift you ever gave me. Fuck that. I gave it to myself.

I laugh a lot. I cry a lot less.

In January a friend told me, “This is going to be your year if you let it.” It was in reference to letting you go. I think she was right. The Universe has come through with opportunities I doubt I’d have if I were with you. I feel grateful for my life every day.

But inside my head there’s still a gnawing soundbite. ‘It’s not fucking fair!’

You wreaked havoc on my life without a care in the world. You front for outsiders as if I never existed, as if we never existed. I hope that’s working out for you. We can ignore each other until eternity. I’ve still seen you naked.

Meanwhile my scars are visible. I pick at them, occasionally causing scabs. Once I have left the scar alone it disappears. I’m reminded of healing. The world wants healing to mean suffer in silence, act hard, don’t give him the satisfaction, don’t pick at the scab. Doing it the world’s way would have certainly killed me. Keeping this story inside of me would’ve done the same.

I hate you. I’m not too doped up on self-help books to say it. I do not wish you a lifetime of happiness. I will not rush my process to appear to be above the fray. I’ll leave that for all the women poorly advising other women to let go when they’ve not figured out how to do so themselves.

I hate you because we are no longer best friends. For having to pick up the pieces of a life I had mapped out for a lifetime with you. For having to come to grips with the fact you were never The One. For all the women — platonic or otherwise — who get to share your life while I don’t. Fuck them. For the embarrassment. For being afraid to write this because of what the “industry” will think. For not being able to listen to Nas without thinking of you.

For forcing me to see how happy I am without you.

Let’s not misconstrue any of this to mean I want you back. Or that I blabber to my girls about you all the time. Or that I’m sitting home singing Not Gon’ Cry. None of this means you were a flawless prize either. Your current/next/future girl has her work cut out for her. Godspeed. But you were my flawed everything. Now you are nothing but a painful part of my past.

Of everything I’ve learned over the years— in books, on the streets — nothing teaches you how to mend a broken heart. Nothing prepares you for one either. All the tips on busying yourself until your head spins, hanging out with your friends, getting new hobbies, I’ve done it all to infinity. The hole in my heart is still there. And underneath the hole is a cut left by anger and resentment from being hurt.

You hurt me.

I love love. I love to be in love. You took that away from me. Vulnerability is something I can no longer afford. I wanted to die when we died. I want to live now. I choose to avoid anything that can ever make me feel like death is an option.

You were reckless with my love. I’ve given up on waiting for the “Sorry I hurt you and did shitty things to keep hurting you” apology. It is of little use to me now.

But how I feel from time to time, how not a day goes by that I don’t think about you, that is not fucking fair.

Such is life. Such is matters of the heart.

One day you’ll be a footnote like the others. I’ll barely remember the whys and whats of my heart that you left shattered like a million tiny pieces of shard. One day I’ll laugh about how silly it was to be this pitiful over a man— one that is 5″4 nonetheless.

Today is not that day. I hope that day comes soon.

Entertainment, Love, Pop Culture, Women

July 25, 2013

Girl, What? Tamera Mowry-Housely Can Keep Her ‘Good Girl’ Advice On Snagging a Hubby

Touch my magazine collection and you’re likely to lose a limb. I’ve hoarded my glossies across three states—Tennessee, Indiana, New York—to the dissatisfaction of every person whose ever helped me move. They’re all like, “Girl, you need to let some of these 1994 VIBE’s go. They take up too much space.” And I’m all like, “Trick, you done lost your mind!” Then packing all my mags neatly in the moving tubs commences.

Women’s mags are my favorite, with all its criticisms that I promise aren’t new. I love being a woman, I love womanhood, I love when women share our stories. It’s why I’d pick up [insert name of your favorite woman’s mag here] on the newsstand over Esquire knowing Esquire is going to have the superior writing. What’s hard as a magazine junkie and journalist is overlooking the way many women mags talk to women as if they’re clueless pre-teens who need their hand held through life. I grow frustrated with the “Change this about your body, buy this product, do this amazing move in the bed to please your man” articles that show up every month in our favorite chick glossies.

I’m into non-sexist advice on love from both men and women in the same way I dig women’s mags. I recognize its flaws but revel in the beauty of what’s presented when done right. When the love advice takes an ugly dip from ‘this is what worked for me’ to ‘you can’t turn a ho into a housewife’ is when I bow out gracefully.

One half of my favorite child star twins, Tamera Mowry-Housely (Sister Sister), sat down with Angela Burt Murray’s (former EIC of ESSENCE) new site CocoaFab.com to talk marriage and mommyhood. Tamera’s a gorgeous positive image on cable television amiss the drink throwing that dominates reality TV. She and her sister Tia snagged seemingly loving husbands in an industry that relies on superficiality all while maintaining careers. Everything about the girls who used to yell “ROGERRRRR!” reeks Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious happy all the time. So her roadmap for women who eventually want to be wives and moms had to be harmless, right? Oh so wrong. Tamera prefaced her advice with a Nicotine like warning for what was to follow.

“I’m very traditional. I’m old school and that’s just how I am. It’s in my DNA. I had to get to the point where I just had to embrace carrying the torch for the traditional girls out there. I love representing the traditional black woman.”

Traditional? Cool. My awesomely feminist ass is traditional in the sense I enjoy chivalry, I want to feel protected (yes, my man walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street) and I’d like to be married before popping out any beautiful brown babies. Traditional! Tamera’s brand of traditional, however, is not something that I’d willingly get down with; and it has nothing to do with the virginity she lost at the age of 29. Bravo for her. Obviously the nuggets of ~~miseducation~~ wisdom she imparted upon all of the Internet worked in her favor, but the first two pieces of advice left me wanting to throw something at my perfectly functioning MacBook Pro.

Tamera says,

“Be refined. Like my grandmother always said, ‘dare to be different.’ While it’s popular these days to be the Rihanna to his Chris (okay, sans the abuse fiasco), consider being different from all of the overly sexy, turnt up girls. Guys want someone who stands out from the crowd. Remember, there’s a HUGE difference between wifey and wife! Don’t get it twisted.”

Girl. GIRL! Tamera can have all the pew seats in the back of her grandmama’s church with her respectability politics bullshit. (Note: Tamera jumped on Twitter to go on record that she never mentioned Rihanna or Chris in the interview, so I won’t even address how problematic that was). You have to wonder if Tamera was giving a similar interview to ELLE.com would anything about being “turnt up” have been mentioned. Me thinks not. But because it’s a site tailored to the black female demographic she felt she had to put on for her audience. Whatever works for you, boo boo.

What is wrong with a woman being “overly sexy?” Everything women do is not for the attention of the male gaze. It is her body to adorn the way she sees fit. If dressing sexy is what keeps women from eventually checking the married box on tax forms those marriage stats should be declining any day now. And if a woman does care about meeting men, what does Tamera think gets the guy at the bar to approach a woman he finds attractive? It usually isn’t her bare faced, sweaty pits from a fresh work out at Crunch. Men don’t tend to approach women based on how many books she looks like she’s devoured in her lifetime.

My problem with the whole act refined so a man will wife you argument—beside it being utterly ridiculous—it’s rooted in this fallacy that all men like the same kind of women. Khloe Kardashian, Jada Pinkett-Smith and P!nk are all very different women who’ve never seemed too concerned with refinery. They’ve all managed to walk into wife territory. It’s dangerous to sell the idea to women, especially black women whose image has been pathologized and scrutinized since forever, that only a certain type of woman gets to have the long wedding gown, three tier cake dream.

It gets worse.

“If you start having sex at such a young age, by the time you’re in your 30s and 40s, it’s old. And you’re trying many different ways to keep it new. I wanted to experience all of that once I got married and living with my husband. Perhaps trying all of the kama sutra positions with your jumpoffs and boyfriends isn’t the best thing. After all, that will leave nothing new to explore for your husband.”

Mrs. ‘I held on to my V card until I was 29 so I’m special’ really tried it. Everyone ain’t you. This is slut-shaming in its most boring form. As someone who didn’t take the plunge into headboard knocking until a few years ago, I’m not sure how she’d know how, when, or if sex ever gets old. While I understand the idea of wanting to leave some sexual exposés for your husband only, that’s a personal choice between a woman and her vagina. Women who’ve been having sex for over a decade by the time they’re 30, or women who’ve done everything sexual with anyone they damn well choose shouldn’t feel shamed for it, or made to feel marriage may skip them because they did one too many doggy styles with men who weren’t their husbands.

Legions of women are interested in what folks (although I wish more of us would be more discerning with which folks) have to say about how to find a man then get him to say, “I do, I do, I do,” (Jeezy voice). It’s exhausting that all the advice is focused so much on how women have to be able to always stay classy in the streets but p-pop on a handstand in the bedroom, cook five days a week, don’t give up the proverbial cookies too soon, don’t be a pushover but not too mouthy, be nurturing but not too needy and make sure you look like a superstar at all times. Thank you, patriarchy. Actually patriarchy, go ride one.

It bothers my soul when women buy into patriarchal attitudes of what makes a woman ‘good’ or wife material. The Madonna-whore dichotomy is soooooo played out. Sort of like the phrase played out. Women are human beings who have the brains to make their own choices for whatever is right for their lives. Do you. A man can get in line with the you that you love or he can ride off in the sunset with the Natashas* of the world.

And let’s just keep it all the way real, sister to sister. Tamera is giving all kinds of snooze. I think I’d rather take advice from Amber Rose. She’s married too.

* Natasha was the 20something Big went off to marry after his breakup with Carrie. Carrie thought Natasha was so perfect in comparison to her. We all know how that ended.

Love, Uncategorized

July 10, 2013

Marriage Through The Eyes of Nicole Ari Parker and Boris Kodjoe And Salim and Mara Brock Akil

“storytelling is so crucial in our community. share your stories with your friends. listen to theirs.” – @pegaita

I want to get married. Realizing that has taken 28 years.

No one knew Kerry Washington was dating Nnamdi Asomugha let alone had we suspected she’d secretly gotten married. Everyone who follows pop culture knew Janet Jackson was dating billionaire Wissam Al Mana, but the couple managed to keep their marriage a secret for months. Women laud celebrities like Kerry, Janet and yes, Beyonce, for being notoriously private with their love lives. Social media has made it so it’s incredibly easy for people to think they know you/your life so I get it, but I’m the exact opposite of Janet and crew. When I’m in love you will know. That’s not to say you’ll know my business; it is to say I have no problem expressing love publicly for the person I’m with. There are two reasons I’ve begun questioning whether or not I should. One is because people put those who are calculatingly private with their relationships on a pedestal. The other is my love and I work in the same industry which comes with nosey lurkers looking to be messy. More importantly I NEVER want anyone to think I owe my success to him. All that said, thank God for couples like Boris Kodjoe and Nicole Ari Parker and Salim and Mara Brock Akil who choose to share their truths with the hopes people can take away something from their unions.

For 45 minutes host Tanika Ray spoke to married couples Boris Kodjoe and Nicole Ari Parker along with Salim and Mara Brock Akil who were all brutally honest about what makes their eight and 14 year respective unions work for them. Their candidness about the issues they individually have is refreshing. Everyone has issues, even rich folks. Both Nicole and Boris had just gotten out of relationships with baggage. Although they’d already fallen in love they stepped back, taking a nine month break and went to therapy separately. Salim suffers from depression–which he self-medicates with weed–and Mara has abandonment issues. Boris and Salim grew up without fathers and had to heal from that pain before being the great men, partners and dads they are now. Nicole grew up seeing her partners argue all the time so she thought it was ok to yell and storm out. Boris had to shut that down by letting her know what he wouldn’t tolerate.

In my own life I’d always loved love despite not being sold on the benefits of marriage for women. Droves of little girls still wearing barrettes fantasized about the day they’d walk down the aisle finally trading their family given last name for a brand new or hyphenated one. Coming from a strong matriarchal family I never gave marriage much thought, nor did I think it was beneficial for women. As a feminist I saw marriage as solely benefitting a man since the woman would most likely still have to work, clean, cook and be the main child caretaker. Marriage doesn’t guarantee your husband will be active in any of the above. And if it ended in divorce? The woman was screwed.

Both my maternal and paternal grandparents are married to this day. But my mom had never been married (and has no interest at this point), both of my godmothers have never been married, my Dad’s sister has never been married and my mom’s sister has been married and divorced twice. These were all smart, double degreed, home-owning, kind, cooking, traveling, fun women who’d lived full lives without a life partner. Get married for what? was the motto. After some self-examination I’d realized my views on marriage had more to do with a fear of not being a good wife due to the lack of examples I saw. I’d also never been in a relationship longer than two years. My grandparents marriages works for them, I suppose, but it wasn’t what I wanted for my own life.

The BET Experience: Couples Revealed reminded me that everyone comes to the table with their bullshit; and after saying ‘I Do’ is when the real work starts. If nothing else it’s inspiring to see married black folks being transparent. It sure beats that 44% of black women have never been married tired headline. As for me, no wedding bells in my near future. I’m working on myself to make sure I’m the best me for when that day comes.

“You are taking away your energy to do what you came here to do.” – Mara Akil on wasting energy thinking your partner’s going to leave you

“People too often leave the ship before they give themselves and partner a chance to work through something that could make their marriage stronger.” – Boris Kodjoe

“Working with Mara is a continuation of our relationship. We’re both friends. We like spending time together.” – Salim Akil

“You got to remove our past out of our future.” – Boris Kodjoe

Love, Women

April 23, 2012

The Dating Conundrum

It was one of those rare 65 degree November nights in the city where magic happens. AEON, a new men’s magazine, was having their launch party in the Samsung store on 59th Columbus circle. Imani and I had met the group of five friends from New Jersey who had founded the mag the night before at a private dinner they had at Duo on Madison Ave. We were invited by Imani’s popular radio host mentor. I reveled in the fact that five men had remained friends (two of which were brothers) for over 15 years, and had capitalized off of several business ventures in various industries. However, they pooled their resources together to create a lifestyle and sex magazine tailored to men.The success they’d achieved in their actual careers allowed them to pursue this without a necessity for profit to pay their bills.

The launch party was like most NYC industry events. Only here would they turn a store that only sells Samsung products into a venue for a fabulous event. Imani and I hit the open bar for several glasses of Barentura Moscato, which did nothing to get me buzzed. We worked the room, mingled a bit. Ok, a lot. The abundance of beautiful black men was unprecedented, at least as far as I had seen. My freshly done 16″ sew-in made for an interesting night of men hitting on me disguised as networking, and it made for even more colorful conversation.

I ran into a guy I’d met at an after work shindig a couple months back. Phil told me he was a designer and his boys bragged about the album cover he’d created for a well known rapper. We talked about my blog that he admitted to reading. Inevitably the conversation trailed down the path of what women and men love to discuss– women and men.

“If I were dating in this city I wouldn’t take any dude seriously,” I proclaimed. “I’d be a chronic dater.”

“Why?”

“I mean, do you know any men under the age of 35 in NYC that are seriously trying to be in a committed relationship?”

“Good point.”

In the summer of ’09 I lived in Jamaica, Queens while interning at VIBE. I was single as ever. It was then I’d come to the conclusion that I wasn’t impressed with the men in NY. Meeting guys was never the issue. It was something about them that I hadn’t encountered in southern or Midwestern men. One of the two guys that stand out was an “entrepreneur.” The other had a good city job doing construction. He was apart of the union so he had great benefits, but worked long hours. Both guys were native NY’ers. Between both of them I always felt as if they wanted me to chase them. The courtship was bare minimum and came with a heap of expectations. In 2010 when I came to NY for my 25th birthday a couple of my guy friends warned me about men in NY. In a nutshell they told me that most of them are not serious about monogamy. They confirmed what my southern belle girlfriend living in NYC had told me that same weekend.

“Women in NY are so aggressive. They’re like vultures. You can’t even talk to a man at an event or bar without 10 other women staring you down, waiting for you to walk away so they can holler at him. Men know this and act accordingly.”

Since then I’ve been to enough launch parties, celebrations of book releases, house parties, networking events, music listening sessions and the like to understand not much has changed. I still wouldn’t expect much from any dating situation. Professional men in the city with degrees, jobs and no children believe they are the creme de la creme. They know that women outnumber men. They also know that for every one woman that takes a bit more effort to date, there’s five more that don’t require much at all.

When I took my random thoughts to Twitter I had no idea it’d turn into a full on two hour conversation. Women (and a few men) chimed in with their experiences all over the globe. What many women agreed on was that the desperation for women to create a nuclear family (get married & have some babies) has contributed to making dating difficult. I immediately wanted to ignore this as just another way that patriarchy plays out by blaming women. Desperate women do not dictate how a man treats a woman or if he’s going to play games. But the larger point, which I agree with, was that if women weren’t operating out of this anxiousness to have a man, any man, they’d raise the bar. By raising said bar men would have no choice but to step up to reach for that bar. In following this argument, women actually have the power to set the tone for what they expect from men when dating. And in doing this women start to set the standard.

Alas, that would be a perfect world. One where sexism and patriarchy doesn’t exist. One in which women don’t think they are doomed if they are single and childless by the age of 30. One in which women don’t validate or sneer other women based on their marital status. One in which men don’t have so many choices so they think they are a commodity. One in which women aren’t constantly fed messages via the media and society at large that they aren’t good enough and must change themselves to get a man. One in which men and women weren’t socialized to conform to heteronormative gender roles. But I digress.

Ironically this conversation was sparked opening weekend for Steve Harvey’s Think Like A Man, which beat out Hunger Games raking in $33 million in sales. The number one movie has an all black cast that tells women to think like men because clearly thinking like a woman is just stupid and will leave you lonely. (Important to note: the screenplay for Think Like a Man was written by two white men). If the growing interest in relationship books, relationship experts and “how-to” relationship movies are an indication of anything, it’s that both sexes desire love. Admitting we desire companionship and life partners is the easy part. Where it seems to get a little fuzzy is what we do to attain what we want. That seems to be a bit harder. Something no dating movie is going to change.

Check out the chirpstory of the insightful conversation we had on Twitter.

Entertainment, Life, Love

November 8, 2011

“We Found Love”

“You almost feel ashamed. That someone could be that important that without them you feel like nothing.”

The first time I watched Rihanna’s “We Found Love” was like staring in a mirror watching my life with an ex sans smoking 20 cigarettes at once or sitting in a tub full of water fully clothed. The lead single from Rihanna’s sixth album, Talk that Talk, has generated quite the buzz for one reason or another. From speculations to the leading male model Dudley O’Shaughnessy portraying Chris Brown to the chatter about the videos interpretation to anti-rape campaigners enraged by what they see as Rihanna portraying herself “an object to be possessed by men,” her latest video has everyone talking that talk.

Outside of being cinematically and thematically one of the best videos I’ve seen this year, “We Found Love” taps into a feeling so real it’s eery. Drugs symbolizing toxic love isn’t exactly a brand new concept. But Riri captures it like no other. When I heard the monologue at the beginning of the video I remember feeling: when it’s over and it’s gone you almost wish you could have all that bad stuff back so you can have the good. More than anything her latest video is about an addictive, dysfunctional relationship that has both parties involved so high off love (or the obsession with each other) they’d rather have the toxicity than be without each other.

Prior to this year I had never written about my own domestic violence experience, but I had written lots about my disgust for Chris Brown’s actions and the women who still supported him. It wasn’t until Rihanna’s infamous 20/20 interview with Dianne Sawyers that I realized why their situation in particular was such a touchy topic for me. Listening to Rihanna speak about the two of them becoming “dangerous for one another because it was sort of an obsession” was like reliving my own hurtful relationship from when I was 20-21-years-old. I saw myself in Rihanna. Every word she spoke about being embarrassed by what happened to her, being embarrassed by falling so deep in love with that type of person and loving that person so unconditionally that she went back even after he beat her, could have been my own. It was my story except I had no fame, riches or PR team. I could visualize Rihanna and Chris’ situation when she said, “He had no soul in his eyes, just blank” because I’d seen firsthand what she described.

What’s more unfortunate than the abuse (both physical and verbal, and I’d argue verbal abuse is far worse) is that like Rihanna, I went back. That type of love was intoxicating. I can hear the ‘that’s not real love,’ chatter now, but until you are in a relationship where you feel what it is like to think you can’t live or breathe without a person, you may not understand. “We Found Love” is only a four minute glimpse of the highs and lows of addiction to toxic love. You live to fight. And then make up. There’s an intensity of highs and lows. The highs are so high you hope they don’t end. Realistically you know they will. Your entire life becomes this bubble where that love and relationship are the only things that matter. And the lows? They’re the lowest of the low. Gut-wrenching pain and confusion. Getting through one day without an argument is a victory. And through it all you both convince yourself that as much as it hurts you need each other like you need air to breathe.

I adore Rihanna because of the her transparency in this video. She bares her soul through her art. For people like me, the authenticity of it makes it relatable. Each time I watch the video I remember how a love so toxic can be so alluring. But as hard as it is to imagine that I was once in something so destructive, I’m also reminded that I’ve never treaded remotely close to anything that toxic since. Growth is a beautiful thing.

Love, Women

June 24, 2011

The Non-Protective Types

It was 3 o’clock in the morning on a Friday night. Kenya, her boyfriend Ez, my boyfriend and I had just left Hurricane on 2^nd Avenue in downtown Nashville. We danced so hard I sweated out my perm. There’s nothing like the DJ’s down south who know how to make a party pop. (I miss that being in NYC where in 2011 they play Joe Budden in the club. Really NY DJ’s?) I was hungry. We hugged Kenya and Ez goodbye nearly skipping to the pizza shop on the corner. One slice of pepperoni pizza was just what I needed.

On the walk to the car the beau and I chatted about how cool Kenya and her Ez were to hang out with. We were totally giddy over their cuteness as a couple. As I was devouring my pizza, my knee length form fitting black dress was slowly rising due to my new weight gain that seemed to hit my thighs and derrière the most. There were three fat guys on the corner looking seemingly bummy. Halfway between reaching the car and being nearly 20 steps past the random guys, my dress was still misbehaving. I couldn’t pull down my dress fast enough before one of the guys yelled: “Nice ass.” I mumbled something to the effect of go to hell, not really loud enough for any of them to hear. Chris remained silent.

“Nice ass, and your boyfriend ain’t gon’ do nothing about it,” another screamed.

I, dumbfounded, waited for my boyfriend’s response. Silence.

“Just like I said, he ain’t gon’ do nothing about it. Bitch ass nigga,” he yelled.

I’m now livid, and can’t help to think this would have never happened with any of my exes. Not only would it not have happened with any of my exes, but years prior in my reckless years it wouldn’t have flown with me either.

In an attempt not to emasculate Chris I looked over at him expecting him to at least acknowledge what was happening. He said nothing. [1]

My anger hadn’t subdued by the time we reached his apartment. I lashed into him with a number of questions.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Were you scared?”

“You’re supposed to be a protector!” I screamed.

Admittedly he was scared. He froze up and didn’t know what to do. After 45 minutes of my temper tantrum I realized this was nothing new to him. He had been called gay, tested by other men and considered weak his entire life for being short, skinny and light skinned. My anger quickly turned to sadness. I cried for him. The man I loved walked around with fear in his heart. Something I just was not used to.

Months later he would reveal that said incident was the beginning of the end of our relationship.

“You never looked at me the same after that night,” he said. “You didn’t respect me as a man.”

He was right.

It is said that women need to feel like their man is the protector and provider for any relationship to work. Eh…provider not necessarily, especially with the influx of independent women. Although, for me, there does need to be an indication he could be the provider if he had to. But protector is a must.

After that night my own issues of how I viewed manhood and masculinity would find its way into our tough conversations. Prior to Chris I had only been in love with men who were 6’1 and taller, dark skinned, and at least 205 lbs.[2] Yet there I was dating a man who was the antithesis of the exes, which was great, until the night I knew he couldn’t protect me.

I don’t know if that incident ultimately ended our relationship. I’m actually sure it did not as there were a myriad of other issues that basically boiled down to timing and compatibility. But after him I was left asking myself, how important is it to feel like your man can protect you?

I decided it’s a must. And it’s not something I’m willing to budge on. Not even a little.

[1] In retrospect expecting him to do something could have gotten both of us seriously hurt or killed. But I didn’t expect him to walk up to them, start an argument or kick their asses. I did want him to at least acknowledge that they had disrespected me. Later there would be other incidents that I didn’t feel he could defend himself or me if something happened.

[2] The incident that happened would have most likely never happened with my any of my exes or best male friends because they don’t carry themselves in a way where they look like they could or should be tested. More than anything, it bothered me that Chris looked like he wouldn’t do anything so they tried him. And he proved them right.

Love

May 4, 2011

Redefining Roles with an Ex

Some nights when I can’t sleep I lie in bed scrolling down my timeline on Twitter from my cell to see what folks are talking about. One night in particular I was shocked to see a gem of valuable wisdom that struck a cord in me so deep that I’ve thought on it for a few days now:

Ppl will create roles for u based upon their own insecurity. Just bc they r miserable they want u to be miserable. They are the ppl who are always like “you remember when u did xyz” even tho it was 10 years ago. Know that the person wants u in same role.

My god if the last of that statement didn’t describe my best friend, Wisdom. (I use ‘best friend’ loosely as our friendship is currently in a strange place.)

Of our nearly 10-year friendship the last two years have been unpredictably rocky. 2007-2008 we were in the intimate relationship/just friends/not speaking/a little more than friends but not monogamous/not speaking again phase. When I moved to grad school in January of 2009 I had decided I was done with him on all levels. On the last New Year’s we’d live in the same state he chose to get drunk and go to the club with his cousin. Meanwhile I went to church, came home, sat fully clothed with a flawlessly made up face watching TV while waiting on him to take me out. I finally fell asleep when he never showed. Well, he showed up at 6:00 a.m. I let him in. Long after he was knocked out I stared at the ceiling, eventually getting up to write. I knew that was the end. Once I moved we only spoke once in May. After that we didn’t speak again until January 2010. When I’m done, I’m truly done.

Since we restored our friendship last January we’ve been on pretty solid ground as friends. We didn’t see each other much because I was in school 460 miles away, but we talked occasionally, and when I went home it was on and poppin’ (not like that). Even though we were back in that platonic boat we always managed to steer toward the line of blur. The feelings were there, but he never wanted to commit. I could never figure out why until I realized, “He’s just not that into you,” although his actions and words said otherwise. But it was something about the title that he couldn’t get down with. So I got down with moving on.

In July when I started dating LI things changed, suddenly. He had a baby on the way and I was in a new relationship. I didn’t predict this leading to a change in our our friendship, but it happened.

I used to ask my girl friends, “Why he is acting funny? He never lets me talk about my new beau. He acts like LI doesn’t exist.”

“Cause he knows you got a good one this time,” they would say.

“Uhh uh. When I was with CB he didn’t act like this,” I’d retort.

“He knew that n**** wasn’t s*** and he was temporary,” they’d say. “Stop playing dumb.”

Maybe he did think I was the one that got away, but I wasn’t cocky enough to assume that’s what he thought that. But I don’t get why that would affect everything. The friendship I’d once known had vanished. We went from his house being my crashing spot when I visited home to not seeing each other at all on those visits.

When I read the tweet the other night I reflected over and over again on: They are the ppl who are always like “you remember when u did xyz” even tho [sic] it was 10 years ago. Know that the person wants u in the same role.

Every time Wisdom and I spoke on the phone for more than 30 minutes the conversation resulted in reminiscing. And I can honestly say he is the one who always initiated it. But when he’d retell stories of our “heyday,” it would quickly turn into, “You remember when you did [insert anything negative that happened in the course of our friendship or relationship]. Every.Single.Time. It was as if he was refusing to accept that I’ve evolved as a person, as a woman, by always reminding me of my shortcomings. If I would mention as much to him about doing this he’d always respond with some equivalent of relax and not to take everything so seriously.

He would take it a step further and ask, “Do you do [insert something I used to do with him when I loved dysfunctionally] to LI?”

I’d remain silent as he’d crack up, but he still anticipated an answer to his idiotic question. Referencing the tweet I thought to myself, ‘well if he wants me in the same role, as the tweet implies, what role is that?’ Is it the role of old best friend Benè who was young and out of control? More than friends Benè that was in love with a man who wouldn’t commit to her? Girlfriend Benè? Loving dysfunctionally Benè? What role is he trying to keep me in? Maybe it was all of the above, but if that’s the case, why? He criticized the flaws I had in those roles to no end, and still does.

I don’t think I’ll ever really know why. Perhaps as the tweet indicated, he’s miserable and wants to remind me of my mess-ups to make himself feel better. Maybe the role he’s constructed for me that needs redefining is based on his own insecurities. Although I never considered Wisdom to be a miserable person and still don’t (he always tries to find the good in everything), he is pretty discontent with his life. I believe he also held a deep insecurity about what I went on to achieve and where he was in his life even though I never looked at that way.* And because of that insecurity and others, he won’t allow himself to see I’m not who I was at 22 and 23. But he can’t see past that because that vision of me fits the construct he needs it to.

Whatever it is I need him to figure it out. Ahora! Because I just want my friend back, sans the remember what you did rhetoric. If that’s even possible.

*My friends back home swear because I have two degrees I’m successful. They think because they can Google me & shit comes up (a friend seriously did this) that I’ve somehow plateaued to some extraordinary level of success. This line of thinking has already ended one friendship. If only they knew my struggle in NY. I never looked at Wisdom through the lens of ‘he hasn’t done XYZ and I have accomplished WXYZ’. There’s nothing about my life that exudes success right now. So I just don’t look at things like that.

12 3

Falling

A Woman I Used to Know

Insomnia

Unforgettable

The Spark

Today

Girl, What? Tamera Mowry-Housely Can Keep Her ‘Good Girl’ Advice On Snagging a Hubby

Marriage Through The Eyes of Nicole Ari Parker and Boris Kodjoe And Salim and Mara Brock Akil

The Dating Conundrum

“We Found Love”

The Non-Protective Types

Redefining Roles with an Ex

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