MY VISIT TO THE CAPE COAST (AKA *SLAVE* COAST) CASTLE AND DUNGEONS.

That is a really weighty title, i know.  But not a fraction as weighty as experiencing the tour of the castle where prisoners were held captive, until the next ship had returned from delivering the last human cargo across the Atlantic sea.  Standing in the same exact place as where so much human suffering took place, so many unspeakable crimes towards humanity...man's inhumanity to his fellow man is one of the biggest mysteries in this lifetime for me.  What drives us to commit such atrocities?  Is it greed?  Or something far more sinister than that i have yet to put my finger on...perhaps i never will.

I have been back from Ghana for a month now, and it has taken me this long to put pen to paper on this blog.  I knew this blog was going to be a difficult one to write, perhaps the most difficult blog i have written.  But i also know its one of the most important blogs i have written, if i can translate my own experiences in a way that touches another human being, in the direction of more compassion.  Which is really what we are missing in human relationships these days...just more compassion.  More kindness.  More empathy.  More pure love.

It would be my wish that everyone get to experience what i did in Ghana, West Africa, a country where a substantial number of Black America's ancestors hail from, situated as it is on the coast of the Atlantic ocean.  It is here now that i visit, walking within the walls of a structure where hundreds upon thousands upon millions of enslaved people BEGAN their slow journey into the depths of "hell on earth".

I no longer have anything to complain about.  Ever.  E.V.E.R.

Cape Coast Castle

But i will.  Complain again, whine again, worry again.  Because l have been perfecting these mentally destabilizing iterations inside my own head for so long that the grooves are deep, and the process of de-programming myself from these forms of "extreme thinking" (that's a lovely euphemism for depression and anxiety, isn't it?!?) is just that: a process.  But perhaps this time when i am in mid-whine, i will have built up enough stabilizing mindfulness to bring a fresh perspective to my thoughts, to my ruminations, to my negative thought patterns: and that is this:  I really do have it within my own personal power to make any of my grandest dreams come true. 

I am free.

Holy shit, right?!?  Sweet freedom.

Cape Coast Castle

Cape Coast Castle

The tour of Cape Coast Castle, which is the name of the massive white structure sitting at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, began with our tour guide, a slight, older man with a thick Ghanaian accent atop his firm English grip,  suggesting to us that anything we have previously been "taught" about slavery, or "learned" about the transatlantic slave trade will stand meek and pale against the experience of being in the place itself.  A place where, over a period spanning several hundred years, human beings held other human beings captive in underground dungeons for weeks upon months, waiting for the ship to return and transfer this human cargo across the Atlantic ocean to various destinations in the west (with island stops along the way).  While held in captivity, these human beings were treated with such disdain and reckless disregard for their shared humanity, it's as if the captors really did not see these human beings as human at all; worse than the way in which farm animals are abused by us: branded first, then chained together and shoved into small rooms that held 300 bodies each, eating, peeing, bleeding, shitting, all in the same dark place.

The tour guide pointed out the shallow canals that ran through the middle of each floor and then to the outer edges of each room; the human waste drainage system, where, until the waste eventually drained out, it stood there, festering smelling, rotting. There was very little light or fresh air in these dungeons, some people were rendered blind by this experience, while others perished from all form of malady from the unsanitary conditions in which they were kept.  And of course, from all manner of brutality that happened here: torture, rape, murder. 

The men and women were kept kept in separate dungeons, and you can *see* how dark it was - only a small square of light carved out at the very top of the tall dungeon walls.

I couldn't help but to imagine how any human being could survive the levels of mental anguish which the captives were subject to, levels that just kept going deeper and deeper: first, the original capture, then the branding, then the dungeon, spending unknown weeks underground without natural light, eating, pissing, shitting and bleeding all in the same place, not knowing what would happen NEXT, but thinking to oneself: surely things cannot get any worse than this...and then - the middle passage.  And, having endured the dungeons and the horrific trip across the Atlantic, not having any idea what was going to happen next (remember there was also a language barrier), but thinking to oneself, surely things cannot get any worse than THIS, and then, being *sold* into a life of servitude at the hands of a cruel and sadistic slave owner. One cannot help but to think that the captives who were brave enough to jump overboard during the middle passage fared better than those who *survived*.  I certainly cannot see myself being so brave...no, not this nervous nellie.  Had i been "lucky" enough to have survived the dungeons, i would have convinced myself that "surely things cannot get any worse than this" to only later wish i had made the wiser choice and jumped while i had the chance.

Governor's Quarters

Governor's quarters

Once the prisoners were captured, the men and women were separated, branded, and placed in separate dungeons.  Each dungeon had several (3 - 4) adjoining rooms, and in each room, no larger than say 40' x 40', 300 prisoners were kept, shacked together with no light.  These conditions stood in stark contrast to the conditions in which the captors were housed, just above the dungeons.  Pictured to the left is the room that the "Governor" (top brass) stayed; large, open and airy with plentiful windows for the the light to get in.  Another interesting juxtaposition the tour guide pointed out was that of the church.  Just outside the doors of the church was a door in the ground.  Open the doors and just below were the prisoners.  So, after praising the lord, one could walk outside his house of worship and check on his property.  Just to make sure it was *safe*. Where were the prisoners going to go?  There was no escape, and the unlucky prisoner who *acted up* or presented difficulty in any way was separated out and kept in a smaller dungeon, where they were eventually meant to perish, and then be thrown out to sea.

Towards the end of the tour, we were shown "The Door of No Return" which was just that: once the prisoners were led out that door and onto the slave ships, they would NEVER return home again.  The guide told us of an effort to   "re-name" this door as "The Door of Return", as relatives of these people taken from their homeland start to return and repatriate Mother Africa.

"DOOR OF RETURN"

The final part of the tour took us to a lovely light-filled room, where on display were clay casts, busts representing faces of the men and women who were enslaved, mistreated, tortured and murdered.  The anguish on these faces is palpable.

On our way out was this plaque on the side of the wall:

"MAY HUMANITY NEVER AGAIN PERPETRATE SUCH INJUSTICE AGAINST HUMANITY.  WE, THE LIVING, VOW TO UPHOLD THIS."






 

DISPATCHES FROM THE (M)OTHERLAND...I HAVE NEVER FELT SO WHITE IN MY TAN SKIN.

How has my first trip to Ghana been so far?  NEVER have i felt so (self) conscious and conspicuous about the color of my skin as i do here in Africa. And that there, my friends, is a BOLD statement.

I reaally don't know how to explain it, except to say...I am *obruni* here, which, loosely translated means *white man* but technically means *deceiver*.  And it's not a good feeling in a country where the *white man* raped your land and stole everything, including its people.  (Technically, the people were *bought* and *sold*, but i will save that discussion for another blog - the one where i visit the castle in Cape Coast, aka. Slave Coast where enslaved ppl. were emprisoned before the middle passage.)

Today at a multi-family funeral for 10 families from the Akan tribe, not only was i looked at, stared at, gawked at and laughed at (by the 20-something "too cool for school" contingency), but i swear, i was also scowled and cussed at as we were leaving the funeral.  I wasn't certain the first time, so i looked again at the woman - and she did it AGAIN - looked straight at me, right into my eyes and cussed me.

So you can imagine my utter PANIC when the chief of one of the clans took my hand and led me out to dance and represent a particular family's deceased member, in front of several hundred well-dressed Ghanaians.  Mind you, i wasn't the chief's FIRST choice for a dancing partner.  No, my friends, that honor would go to my lovely traveling companion Karma, an American from North Carolina who is several shades DARKER than me, with newly budding dreadlocks (you can see her in the video below).  But - she seemed to have even deeper-seated anxiety issues than me, insofar as dancing in front of strangers in a strange land, as she looked at him with fear, bordering on horror, and shook her head back and forth, declining the chief's invitation.  At which time he set his eyes on me.

Well - I knew right then and there, even though dancing in front of other ppl, especially black ppl, especially, especially a group of black ppl. steeped in a culture where DANCE is LIFE was the LAST THING I EVER WANTED TO DO, I was not going to let my people down!  And by *my people*, i mean all of us light-skinned, ambiguous-looking, mixed heritage folks with lifelong identity crises, borne from a society that wants to put everyone in nice neat box of categorization/classification, but it's not so easy with mixed heritage folks - black, white, which are you?  What do you claim?  Answers, we need answers ppl!!!

No  my friends, i wasn't going to refuse the chief and let down and entire *race* of black/white ppl.  So i took his hands - mine sweaty as usual (i have hyperhidrosis so this is a regular thing for me, but the water works were in FULL FORCE in this 85 degree, sticky humid heat) and allowed myself to be lead out onto the dance floor.  Awkward at first, out of step with the chief, I could feel the hot eyes and judgement of hundreds of Ghanaians on my back, i gave myself a quick pep talk:

"Maureen,  you can DO THIS!  You dance beautifully at every drum circle in Oakland, every weekend you are out there dancing your multi-ethnic a$$ off!  Pull it together Maureen, P-U-L-L  I-T  T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R!!! STAT! You hear me?!? I said STAT!!!

And i did.  I did pull it together.  And - for a brief 30 seconds, my step was in step with his step.  Moving with the beat of the music.  And when he gracefully changed up his step, so did i - not nearly as gracefully, but i did.  And the entire time, making sure to smile, because I am far more attractive when I smile.

And just like that, as soon as i was really getting my stride...it was over.  He was thanking me, and leading me off the floor.  And after the dance, the group I was with was required to stay up in front of the crowd of hundreds of curious and confused Ghanaians (well she's definitely not BLACK...but she's not quite WHITE either...what IS SHE???) as my Ghanaian guide - and poet - recited one of this poems in honor of the deceased.  And after several more nerve-wracking minutes - time enough for another Ghanaian (this one a fellow who had had way too much to drink) to greet me with an embrace around my body that ended up with a quick squeeze of my right breast, we were lead back to our seats in the audience.

And that was how my first full day in Mother Africa went.

“Dealing with the Emotionally Unavailable Human Male”

Acronym: EUHM, phonetically pronounced….eewwwwwwwm. 

  

I feel like before i go any further, i need to stamp *trigger warning* all over this thing because i will be going deep, deep, DEEP into gender issues, and where i happen to stand on a few of them.  And if you know me at all, you know i don't hold back.  So if you, like the majority of Amerikans right now, are feeling uber-sensitive and itchy about the current state of gender relations, read on at your own risk...but certainly do read on.

Starting with this disclaimer right up front, as I bow to acknowledge all the *equal rights* folks out there: I know there are a lot of emotionally unavailable human females (euhf’s) too.  But I don’t feel particularly passionate about the EUHF, so if you do, feel free to have at it – in your own blog.

I would also like to pull the transgender hat out of the bag right here right now and let you know that i respect everybody's inherent right to live their life to their choosing.  My life experience has been as a "cis" gendered female (i hate even having to say that goddamit i am a womban!) who has had relationships with "cis" gendered men.  This is the topic of today's discussion. Ahem.

The EUMH will not have had many shots at developing meaningful, long-term relationships in his lifetime, and a good lot of them will never have been married, nor have any offspring.  For some, of course, this is a life choice (and good on you for knowing you don't want to bring any more people into this world and acting on that); however, for the EUHM, it’s on account of the human female’s ability to sense in the EUHM an inability to provide support  - of any substantial kind – in any significant way, shape or form. 

The EUHM will often say one thing, yet do the exact opposite of that thing because they are unable to stay committed to the commitments they make. 

When in conversation with the EUHM, you can expect that any level of increased emotional intensity is likely to cause him to completely shut down.  And quickly.  “I gotta go…” is the unoriginal verbiage often hastily substituted in place of a more truthful “I don’t have the emotional depth to be able to participate in any sort of meaningful dialogue with you, so ima shut this here down. Stat.”

The EUHM thinks that any sort of crying is manipulative in nature.  This is because he is incapable of being a compassionate witness to any normal, natural and healthy signs of human emotion.  He has been programmed to believe that emotional displays of any kind are a sign of  weakness and lack of self-control.  Which is super-important to the EUHM - the perception of complete and total self-control.
 

The emotionally unavailable human male has a complete ignorance - bordering on disdain - for the differences in the emotional waters of men and women.  I am speaking in generalities here, of course, yet still, i am certain that many of you will have a knee-jerk reaction to my suggestion (and celebration) of the differences between men and women, in perhaps unconscious support of the current cultural programming propaganda machine pushing the sameness of men and women, under the clever guise of *equality*.  

And yes of course we are EQUAL, but we are most certainly NOT same for heaven’s sake!  We are markedly different, in many ways – by design!  It's good that we have different skill sets and equipment!  And we have wombs!  And in these wombs, we carry blueprints for a potential emotional depth that, when manifested, is able to provide the level of nurturing ALL human beings need to create and sustain strong, sturdy and everlasting bonds of trust and safety!   It doesn’t always work this way of course, but the design is intentional, and the equipment is there.

The EUHM human male doesn’t understand the value and sheer beauty inherent in the freedom demonstrated by people who are courageous enough to express the entire range of the human emotional spectrum. From pure joy, to profound sadness and deep grief. 

An EUHM is unavailable to hold space for another human being to feel the entire range of human emotions because he was not encouraged to express them – at best, or was punished for expressing them – at worst. 

I SUPPORT THE EMERGENCY OF THE DIVINE MASCULINE.  This involves providing a sanctuary for the wounded masculine to being expressing himself and his profound pain in a way that transforms and heals rather than hurts others. And believe me, acting out of unconscious cultural programming almost always hurts others.  

 My support does NOT include providing an unlimited supply of good, clean energy from which the EUHM can suck endlessly, remaining in a comfortably parasitic semi-conscious state of existence. 

Will not be endlessly sucked on in a parasitic fashion.

In closing: to all of you out there who find yourselves navigating relationships with the EUHM, I offer this as the one golden rule:

NEVER take his unconscious behavior personally.  Because, quite clearly, it’s not about you. Nor will it ever be.   No matter how much the EUHM works to gaslight you into thinking its about you, its not. Ever. About. You.  







Which is a good thing, because you have enough s#it on your plate to deal with, without taking on the emotional vacuousness and general carelessness of the EUHM, who has a tendency to assume its everyone else's job to manage his sloppily-packed life baggage.

As if. 

AND THEN, THE WORST THING HAPPENED: NOBODY SHOWED UP – 10/20/17

So, unless you have been living under a rock, (or we just don’t know each other, or you don’t participate in any of the social medias, or you have been busy, or out of town, or at work, or eating a snack) you are aware of a new movement medicine offering that I started last week called MOGA, which stands for Mo’s Yoga.  

FIRST CLASS - Photo credit Maryam Roberts

Our first class took place on 10/10/17, and we had a good size crowd of 19 yogis.  I was thrilled, though I knew that exactly HALF of that number came from one friend, her family and the friends she invited.  I had anticipated that the second class wouldn’t be as well attended - 6 people showed up - and then there was the unexpected and unfortunate venue change I had to manage after the first week.

Class #3: three people showed up, including my roommate, so that doesn’t really count, does it.  I mean, I guess it does kinda count since it was a body I was teaching, but he showed up more for me than for himself.  

And class #4?  Nobody.  Nobody showed up.  Zero attendees.  Nada, nothing, no one.  And I had my 14 year old Sun doing my door and told him he could come up at 7:10.  And at 7:10 he came up, walked straight to me and gave me the warmest, most wonderful hug.  

And you might think that zero attendance would motivate me to re-think whether this is really something that I should be pursuing…I mean, if I was on the outside looking IN, I would certainly wonder whether NOW is the time to throw in the proverbial towel.  But now is NOT the time, my brothers and sisters.  And quite honestly, MOGA has become somewhat of an obsession for me, and the idea of failure doesn’t seem like much of an alternative.  At least not a good one.   Because I think movement medicine is needed right now in our world, in a big, big way.  And, thanks to the few die-hard fans of mine who continue to tell me how much they appreciate what I do, I am not stopping, nope.  Re-tooling, maybe, but I am not stopping.  At least not yet.  Ask me again in a couple of months.

a reminder i wrote on my livingroom chalkboard 3 months before class started.  i mean, i obvs. still AM attached to the result, but think of it more as a *mantra*

Over the past several years, I have developed this theory about LIFE.  And it goes something like this: each and every one of us has a special skill (we may even have MORE than one, but I happen to have one, and that is movement/touch), and our job, our duty, our obligation is to DISCOVER this special skill.  And if we are fortunate enough to have the time, space, patience, fortitude to discover our special skill, then we must offer it to the world.  That’s it, that’s all there is to it - we MUST.  It’s quite simple, but it’s not easy.  Because when one offers themselves up to the world, especially to the world we currently live in, with its negativity, stress, darkness, despair, then we also open ourselves up to *rejection*.  And even though this may not be what is truly happening (the rejection part), I am an adoptee.  And as an adoptee, because I experienced what felt like the ultimate rejection at a time when I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling, nor did I have my mother there to hold me and tell me that everything was going to be ok, this is EXACTLY what it feels like in my heart. 

a reminder i wrote on my livingroom chalkboard 2 weeks before class started.

So – I am learning how to take in what feels like rejection, hold it in my heart, and transmute that into something else – determination, drive, joy, even humor.  Because everything IS going to be OK.  I just may need to re-tool just a bit.  Perhaps my target market is off, perhaps my music, perhaps it just needs time.  

The other day, after day #2 when I went crying to a beautifully supportive friend of mine about the difference in class size between the first and the second (little did I know I was in for far greater disappointment) she offered me this from one of her mentors, Tony Robbins: “We overestimate what we can accomplish in one year and underestimate what we can accomplish in five years.”

So yeah...looks like I am taking the long game approach on this one.  Because my goal with this offering is to assist each and every one of my students with moving into FULL EMBODIMENT…that place where we live - and thrive - FULLY in our bodies, staying connected to these vehicles that house our minds and souls.  And full embodiment is our birthright, yet it remains so elusive for many of us.  Especially those of us (like myself) who, as James Joyce says in the opening pages of his short Story A Painful Case:  “Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body.”

This was me.  Most of my life.  Until I found yoga.  I came into the practice of yoga when Tre was in my belly.  I stayed for the movement medicine; the new ways I was learning to explore and connect with my physical body, the skills I was developing to help me work with the mind THROUGH the physical body, and I would say that I have the fiercest “monkey mind” of anyone that I know.  And when I practice asana (pose/posture), that monkey mind gets quiet for a bit…and what a relief that is!  Phew, right?!? A little piece of mind, ffs!

I began to take my practice seriously in 2014, and became a teacher in 2015.  And when I found that I was able to assist OTHERS in getting re-connected with their own bodies, my heart began to soften, and soften, and soften.  I mean, that’s really what it’s all about as far as I am concerned – helping others to help themselves.  

So MOGA will be around for a while, and I hope that those of you who have not made their way to a class will eventually make it – and those who have come will come back, again and again.  Because I guarantee you, re-connecting with your body will be the best thing you ever did for yourself.  The best.  

MOVEMENT IS MEDICINE.  Dose up…over and over and over again.  

OAKLAND'S BEAUTIFUL DRUM CIRCLE - 10/1/17

So if a video of today's drum circle near the pillars of Lake Merrit somehow manages to make its way onto the interwebs, and you see the beautiful dance circle inside the drum circle, made of up 5 beautiful women, of all varying shades of beautiful color....you can totally pick me out - as the dancer who is...just slightly off.  most of the time.  every once in a while I'M ON! and then...i'm off again.

And its not because I CAN'T dance.  Really, its not.  You should see me when i'm in my "element" i'm fierce, trust me.  I'm even developing my own style of dance called "Nefertiting" (after the Egyptian queen Nefertiti). Just ask the 14 year old son...he will vouch for me.

Actually, don't ask him.  He's not *fully sold* on this idea yet.  Right now he doesn't like it at all.

Let's just say...you could call me the classic case of the person who is (most) often found "dancing to the beat of my own drum."

me dancing "to the beat of my own drum".

me dancing to the "beat of my own drum" while my brother and sister look on, with obvious envy and jealousy. 

 

me dancing to "the beat of my own drum" while sibling gets increasingly jealous (or bored) and goes to read a book.

So let me now provide you with a little bit of context about why it was ME who was that lone dancer today, who just "couldn't quite get with the program" the other beautiful sisters were laying down: you see - I am more of a free-styler (you couldn't tell that from all of the preceding evidence i have provided, could you?) and THIS today was West African dance.  Which has a very specific style, with very specific moves and sequences. And rules.   I will try and paraphrase those rules for you now...of course, through my own personal lens, which obvs. has an impact on my interpretation of said rules, but what the hell, gotta start from somewhere.  For example, there is the traditional formation of all of the dancers in a moving circle, all of the dancers "falling in line" in beautiful formation, imitating the move that "the leader" is currently doing, whomever that leader may currently be.  Because i am pretty certain that the "leader" is supposed to trade off...like everyone is supposed to get a turn to pick a move.  Which sounds a lot like how we used to do it in elementary school.  Except in THIS case, it is important to know the basic styles/movements of West African dance.  And do them.  Which i don't.  Either one of those.  Perhaps some of the very basic ones, and i am better at the few i DO know when I get to pick and choose when my body does them.  But when someone ELSE is choosing when and how the moves are done, and for how long, and i am already a bit shaky (for various and layered reasons), well that's where things tend to get a bit dicey.  Especially when it's "my turn" to lead.   Or at least, when i "think" its my turn.  Today, there were several occasions when i thought it was "my turn" to lead, but nobody else followed me, so obviously i mis-judged that...over and over and over again.  And also because none of the moves i did were in anybody's lexicon of acceptable moves to have the group follow, i suppose.  Like i said, i am quite certain that those have already been decided in advance.

And then, smack dab in the middle of "i don't belong here right now", is the opportunity, in this particular West African dance tradition, there is a designated time and a place, for each dancer to shine all on her own..to do her "own thing."  One by one, each dancer makes their way to the center of the circle and gets her turn to show off her special dance to an appreciating audience of drummers and spectators (and by now that spectator circle has grown quite large).

So - you would naturally assume the that THIS PART wouldn't be a problem for me, right?  You would think that THIS PART would be the part that i was really looking forward to, after having had to endure the painful art of following the group through a series of moves that are not familiar to me.  

And if you would have thought that, you would have been wrong.  Because NOW, now that I have had my confidence shaken to its very core...there's not a snowballs chance in Hades (or any other extremely uncomfortable situation) that my body is just going to STOP listening to the myriad of  haywire signals my brain has been sending to it (yes i'm pretty much having an out-of-body experience at this point), and start listening to itself and just "do its own thing".  No way. No. Way.

In this sacred circle, somehow - i  have allowed myself to be taken out of my own groove, and am having a really difficult time getting the needle to stay steady, or to re-thread properly....so i can patch the whole and pull my pants back up.

And then finally, mercifully, the circle of dancers breaks up, setting all of us free to express ourselves however we choose, but i'm afraid today's damage has been done...in front of what was quite a substantial crowd, with several active cameras and videos recording this indigenous ritual of the drum circle.

Where the drummers inspire the dancers...but it's really the dancers inspiring the drum - imho. 

 So it's been catalogued, yeah.   

And as much as i know that when i enter the dance circle, I'm heading straight into the "belly of the beast" that beast being the public exposition all of my inner demons and insecurities about being "the worst" dancer in the room (which was often the case in my teens and 20's when i would go out dancing with my black girlfriends),  I still keep pushing myself to participate.  Just participate.  Because that's the only way i am ever going to learn.  That's the only way i'm gonna get to "belong", to feel like i belong, in that circle, with those other women.

And how i desperately "want" to belong to that circle...I want to show them that i, too, can play this game.  That i'm not some, some "interloper", or worse, some "imposter" in their game.  This, even as i remember the role i have played in this particular game all of my life.  And then, that added to the fact that i am just not a natural "follower".  That's probably why i am terrified of salsa dancing.   You reeeeeallllyyyy need to let go, trust, and learn how to follow.

Nor would i say that I am a natural "leader", though i have been told this before...mostly in school, where i tended to lead the pack in this type of easily-codified performance exercise.  I could outshine the *best* of them just by memorizing a few lines.  Then dumping those lines to make space for the the new ones.

I would say now that I prefer just to "do my own thing", which i can fairly guess is a product of the chameleon-like skill set i have developed living as a bi-racial person in an increasingly black and white world.  At least on its surface.

Bi-racial people are the perfect example of that common, old adage about life never being just "black and white", though it often appears as such.  It's shades of grey.  And, if you're paying close, close attention, ever-rich and colorful shades of gray...subtle shades, too.

So I will keep pushing myself up towards the edge of that dance circle - testing my strength, mustering all of my courage - knowing that all i ever have to do to belong is tap into the awareness that the fastest and most direct route to that place is in the letting go of, over and over and over again, the conscious effort of "getting there".

Because I'm already there, there, right?!?  Isn't this what I have been told/have read by some very smart ppl on a number of occasions?  Why the f#ck cant i seem to get this particular lesson?

I NEED ANSWERS, PPL!!!

I already belong.  And i also dance to the beat of my own drum.  And, as i continue to shed the idea that I will ever dance "as good as" her, or her, or him, it is THEN and ONLY THEN that I will truly find my own phenomenal dance.

I'm getting there.

Plus i need to take some West African dance classes.  Just being able to keep up would be nice.

update 10/2/17: i have just woken up at 5.m. the next morning thinking about all of the West African dances i didn't do yesterday. :o/

AND THEN...HE GROPED ME.

me being better in person.

*editor's note: photos were taken at midnight last night during a flash of brilliance ( brought on by a wee bit of insomnia and significant hunger pains) that these visual aids would definitely enhance your understanding of what actually went down that night.  

                   ✻                       ✻                       ✻

He (and when i say "he" i am referring to his online profile) was quite mysterious…only photos, no words.  After sending a couple of idiosyncratic texts to him, he informed me that he was French…to which I replied that we probably shouldn’t be texting each other back and forth like this because all of my cleverness would most likely be *lost in translation* on this forum.  i'm really better in person, anyway.

So we decided to meet for coffee the next day.  Which was nice.  He was a very beautiful man, not actually from France originally; born in the West African country of Senegal and then moved to France in his later years (high school or college i would guess) for school.  He moved to the United States a couple of years ago for additional schooling.  So I’m not certain why he needed to present himself as French versus Senegalese…more perceived appeal re: the "sexy frenchman" stereotype?  just a guess.

We talked at the café for about an hour and a half, during which time I learned he had been married twice and had fathered four kids, all of whom lived with their mothers.  In response, I mentioned my lack of desire to ever get married again, in addition to my desire to explore the potential for open/alternative relationships... 

He was not impressed.  We spend the last 30 minutes of our time together discussing how/why a situation where his significant other was seeing other people would be extremely upsetting for him. And didn’t I understand this?!? Well, he didn't really say that last part; it was more like a *look*, coupled by the tone in which he said "extremely upsetting".

And then - we parted ways, thanking each other for the time spent together.  It was nice…no fireworks, but I did entertain the idea of seeing him once again…if only in order to get further clarification on whether the glaring compatibility issues might be temporarily overlooked in favor of finding some sort of alternative arrangement...i don't know what i would exactly call that alternative arrangement...oh wait, yes i do. Denial. 

I heard from him several hours later that evening.  He texted me to ask if I wanted to join him for a walk around the lake.  I responded that I didn’t do much walking, but that sitting was OK for me.  So we decided to meet for dessert.  

We met, and it couldn't have been more than 5 minutes into the date when it really landed for me that he and I were not meant to be…in ANY capacity.  Nothing was going to work with this man…no configuration was possible, not even a temporary one.  For starters, we had a very difficult time understanding each other.  He speaks 7 languages, including French, English, and his native Senegalese tongue.  I, on the other hand, speak only ONE language, and often very idiomatically...some would just say *badly*, not to mention that i have started to forget words.  In other words, it’s difficult for a NATIVE English speaker to understand me, let alone someone who has English as a second (or seventh) language.  Not to mention, I tend to throw in a fake accent or two when I am REALLY feeling myself.  So, if you’re not a native English speaker, you could see how this habit of mine could work against clear communication with someone who really does have seven different accents!  And then, there was the part where he looked simply BORED with me - he kept rubbing his eyes and looking at his phone.  At one point, he pulled up photos of his former wife on his phone, to show me just how beautiful she really was, because this was the reason that he married her. The topic of beauty - his own beauty - had come about earlier, when he recollected to me his younger self, back in his pro soccer-playing days, and had pretty much had the entire field open to him.  The ex-wife was supposed to be proof of this past hey-day.  But he couldn't find the photo.  And i think he could tell i really couldn't give a rat's ass. 

me not giving a rat's ass how beautiful  his ex-wife was.

In the final analysis, he and i really just wanted different things, different relationships.  And the last time I got involved with a man under very similar circumstances (the part where we wanted different relationships) well, let’s just say it ended badly.  Really.  Badly.  So I’ve learned my lesson.  The hard way of course, but at least I did learn.  

And the first few times I mentioned to him that we just weren’t suited for each other, he immediately responded with reasons why he and I would, indeed work.  We went back and forth and around about this for a solid 20 – 30 minutes, until I was eventually quite fatigued by the whole ridiculous exchange and suggested that we wrap the night up. 

"You just grabbed my breast!"

We took a fairly awkward walk out to my bike, and when I leaned in from atop my bike to give him (what I thought) was the obligatory - if not friendly - "no hard feelings, thanks anyway” hug, he flung his right arm around my shoulder..and then groped my right breast with his other hand. 

If any of you have seen that comedy "Nurse Jackie", there is a doctor on the show who has this involuntary body-tick, where he inappropriately grabs women's breasts.  It felt sort of like that, except that my groper knew exactly what he was doing...nothing involuntary about it.  I was stunned for a moment.  And then i looked him square in the eye and said: You just grabbed my breast! (my voice going staccato on "breast!" for emphasis)  He said nothing.  And after taking a moment to collect myself, I grabbed both handlebars with gusto and determination, and rode off into the night. 

Several seconds later he called after me - ”Hey…hey!”  I didn’t turn around.  I rode like the wind to get home – and also to see if the speed could whip the violation from my body.  

What an asshole.  He texted me 30 minutes later “Have a wonderful evening”

I swear…some ppl. are simply and utterly clueless…and other ppl. suffer as a result. 

me waiting patiently, with grace and poise.

But I’m a resilient woman who knows not to take these kinds of things personally, as unpleasant as them may be.  And, after a hot bath and a good Palo Santo smudging, I was over it…and yes, i do indeed remain hopeful.  

Because what can I say, to find the one(s), you gotta kiss a lot of frogs…and ignore the occasional grope.