Archive for September, 2011

Raw Thoughts

Completely bugging out. It’s almost like I feel in adequate; not as a person, but as an companion? Yea, a romantic companion. He’s the only person that has every made me work for it. Just about everybody before him was—disposable. I finally figured out what I want from him, but what does it matter if he doesn’t want me. I mean if he’s losing interest. I don’t know what he wants from me and this whole indecisiveness foolishness—I swear I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it. I actually realized that too many decisions were made for me as a child. That’s kind of how my brother put it. (How could he figure that out five years before me??) Anyway, I don’t want to say I blame my mom, but she had something to do with it. I try to think through all of my decisions clearly, but apparently I’m doing something wrong because that is NOT working. I’m not even sure if “bugging out” is accurate. I can barely focus, it’s determined my mood, and it becomes more frustrating when I realize I don’t have a solution.

I know I need actions, but I don’t know what to do. Throw a freaking parade? I’m sad, a little undeserving, pitiful, and trying not to give up. Every time I say that it gets harder. This is so not a good time in my life for this. Too many thoughts, but then again when would be a great time. I didn’t eat till five. I wonder if this has anything to do with it. I’m not even being productive now; minus the fact I’m getting my “feelings” out. I hate that word. Tired. Frank Ocean has been stuck in my head, which doesn’t really help; Thinking About You.

Simone you are…(strong). I can’t write this without feeling cheesy so nevermind. I need to get it together. At least, I came up with a revelation and a clear answer within the past two days, I think. Stomach’s turning. Urrrrrrrrggg!

So now what? *opens blog. Copy. Paste.*


“You’re intimidating”. These were the words right out of dear friend’s mouth. Each syllable stinging like darts aiming to puncture my lung leaving me slightly breathless. What provoked this sentiment? Why hadn’t she told me sooner? I devoted my effort into focusing on the TV commercial to avoid looking at her face or better yet to keep her from seeing the expression I had on mine. In the midst of my confusion, I managed to utter “what do you mean?”. She attempted to straighten out the confusion by exchanging “intimidating” with “strong personality”, as if that was any better. Her explanation meant nothing because both words translated into a fear brought upon by my presence.

The only shocking factors about the delivered statement was that it was coming from a very close friend and she had chosen an uncomfortable set of words in which to express herself. Oddly enough, I had heard similar comments before. Some have said it’s my straight-face, rude-like jokes while others believe it is the attitude I give when performing spoken word. Either way, I ignored the comments because they referred to a part of my personality that was not going to change, but I guess my friend put it in perspective for me. It made me wonder how many of my other friends could agree with her, but never bothered to share such feelings. With my friend’s departure, I immediately commenced a text message survey to determine if I was, in fact, intimidating.

To my disappointment, I received a handful of yeses. Very few said no and a couple of others did not respond or were in between. I don’t know how “not really” justifies as an answer, but apparently it does. I laid in my bed staring at the complex ceiling arrangement that reflected my mental state. Why do people think I’m mean? Even my boyfriend told me of situations where certain girls were scared to be around or even meet me. This one girl, Megan Jerome, took off running when I saw him notify her that she was about to meet me. I’m 5’0 and 113 lbs. WHO COULD BE AFRAID OF SOMEONE SO PETITE?!

At this point, I needed to do something drastic! I picked up my phone and called my best friend in New York. I presented her with the situation troubling my mind and she told that we both

have strong personalities, but it is a good thing because then people will respect us. It does not necessarily mean they are scared, but fully aware of the kind of woman I am. I also spoke to my mother who let me know that I’ve always been the assertive type ever since I was little. She told me when I was in kindergarten, another kid in my neighborhood stole my bicycle. She was preparing to come handle things until she realized I was already in the process of getting my bicycle back.

These are two women who know me as well as penguins know their mates solely based on their scents. I almost had to believe them and how could I not? Their words were so enlightening. Everything said about me and feelings felt towards me were simply false assumptions. That is what I had to keep telling myself. I can always try to make better impressions and amend the ones I have already established, but until then I’m just going to the same ole me.

I woke up this morning and rolled over to check the time only to realize it was already noon. I drag myself out of the bed to perform my daily routine. Use bathroom. Plug in flat iron. Brush teeth and wash face. Get back in the bed. Today is the most wonderful time of the year and I’m going to my aunt’s house to celebrate with my family. However, I know that when they say the event will start at one o’ clock they really mean an hour or two or whenever everybody gets there; whichever comes first. For this very reason I can take my time and enjoy the smell of Christmas. To me, it is the smell of heaters burning and the lovely aroma of food floating in the air; it’s my only motivation to get up.

I know when I walk through the door of the party I will be overwhelmed with loud talking and even louder laughing. I ritually go around giving hugs whether or not I know the person. Then we all impatiently wait for the latecomers to arrive and even longer for the food to get done. In the meantime, the den and the living room are filled to maximum capacity and multiple conversations are in progress. Auntie sheila, Tee Tee, and my mom are going on about recycled gift bags while Uncle Lafayette, Stephan and my brother talk about–men stuff. Everyone else is checking in and out of conversations Despite such entertainment, the entire family is subconsciously wondering about the food or verbally inquiring about it. Uncle Lafayette attempts to give a speedy blessing of the food by saying “God bless the food. Amen”, but he fails miserably. We all grab hands and my mother, the minister, gives a proper blessing. Then every abled body rushes to the kitchen loading their plates with whatever looks good, usually everything. There’s cornbread, green beans, black eyed peas, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, and too much more to name. Either way it’s all made with substance that has the ability to hush the whole house. Nothing is heard, but the sounds of chewing mouths and stomachs being comforted. It’s an amazing moment, but not as great as the opening of presents. A tradition that progressively gets played out, making Thanksgiving my favorite holiday because it never lets me down. However, I realize that Christmas is more memorable because I have lowered my expectations so my family can exceed them every time.

The “S” is Silent Interview


I’m not really good with interviews. The questions make me nervous, and sometimes frustrated, because I never know what to ask.. I try to avoid broad topics like tell me your life story or something offensive like does your acne get worse than that? . After much deliberation I decided to go with something simple and follow wherever that takes me. Thus, I asked her to state her full name which is only given in the case of legal matters and sometimes upon request.

“S. Simone Ivey”, she replied.

The next question was seemingly obvious even though the first questions implied the explanation of possible initials.

“And does the ‘S’ stand for super?”, I asked half jokingly.

“No. It’s the initial for my first name”

NO DUH! I thought to myself. The “S” should probably stand for sarcastic with a remark such as that one. I could tell by the look on her face that this was going to be a complicated process. She didn’t seem thrilled by the topic, but I had chosen such an easy, simple starting question. How could that have gone wrong?  I reminded myself that I am in control and attempted to squeeze the name out of her which was like picking at a pimple before it’s ready; a lot of pain and trouble with little results.

“Do you know what I say when people ask: ‘how do you pronounce your first name?’ I don’t. Despite the obvious hint that I don’t want to tell them, they still feel the need to know. I go by Simone and everything else name-wise is unnecessary information. But people these days don’t know when to let something go so, oblivious to my emotions, they attempt to pronounce the thirteen letter, five syllable name anyway. Each attempt is a reminder that the school system is failing at the lower levels of education where you learn how to sound out a word.”

I wanted so badly to ask how does that make you feel? But this was definitely not the moment for such humor. I went on to inquire about why it was such a big deal. Apparently, when Simone was younger, she was confused between people who were genuinely trying to learn her first name and those who were making fun of it. I guess scars made at such a young age never really go away.

“So what does it take to get you to say your first name?”, I questioned in a sneaky manner.

“It depends on how well I know and trust you”, she responded.

“Well you know and trust me, don’t you?”, emphasizing the statement more than the question.


“Great, then you’ll share it with me?”

“You can’t possibly believe I will tell you, when I know other people are going to read this”, she said with a smirk on her face.

I was actually supposed to be looking for a piece of my writing to  submit for an internship and I came across all of these old pieces I wrote in response to a class prompt. I realized how much I enjoyed them and thought I would share them on my blog since I’ve been slacking on that. I’m sure it could use some editing, but I don’t feel like doing it.

I walked into my fifth period class which was also the last one of the day, for me anyway. I modeled a gray and navy blue striped shirt that was covered by my navy blue jacket. This is how I remember my days, by outfit. Skinny jeans were not in yet so flare-legged pants were my favorite, especially with my all black Chuck Taylor’s. I had a Little Hug (the drink)in hand that I bought from the school store; the orange kind with the aluminum lid.

Once I settled into my desk and subconsciously placed my feet on the floor-level basket in front of me, I peeled back the tricky lid in preparation to cure the dryness overtaking my mouth. Mindful of the two minutes left until the bell rang, I managed to start chugging down the 8oz drink before my teacher called me out for breaking one of her all mighty classroom rules. In the midst of my rehydration, a voice in the crowd of chatty students emitted a joke beyond hilarious. It seemed impossible not to laugh, like it was a natural reaction or a reflex. The only problem was my mouth instantly forgot about the task at hand.

Within seconds I burst into laughter simultaneously spraying boodles of warm saliva and juice through my teeth. Celia Burke, the girl who sat in front of me, had just fallen victim to an unwanted shower. My stomach dropped as if it no longer desired to be a part of my body. At this point, I automatically began chanting my apologies over and over. Rewind then repeat. I rushed to get wads of paper towels from a tall, brown shelf in the corner of the room and continued my robotic chant. With every breath I inhaled to restart my expression of sorrow, Celia took the chance to tell me it was not a big deal. She was just glad it was only juice and not a heap of vomit. Plus, she had been caught in the rain on the way to class and her shirt was conveniently black. She was already wet and the orange drink would not show up on her shirt. Thank goodness. I was surprised by her reaction, but still immensely embarrassed. I thought these things only happened in movies and on purpose.

My English teacher cooled the situation down by calling the class to order. I cleaned up my mess to the best of my abilities and apologized one last time. I tried to pay attention to the lesson, but did not have much success. I still had the almost empty Little Hugon the floor next to me, making a mockery of my momentary clumsiness; emphasis on momentary. Although by the end of the class I pushed the memory to the back of my mind, I obviously cannot forget the incident. When I think about it, I realized that mistakes are only mistakes if you never learn from them. With that said, I know to be more cautious about when and where I choose to enjoy any beverage.