bell hooks, send help!!!
more notes on being in my lover girl era
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Even though I just heard the Jill Scott track for the first time last night at Aza’s listening party for the album, I’ve been singing “I don’t want no more nigga blues” since my initial heartbreak at 17. My barely developed prefrontal cortex believed all I needed was a bit of time, and they, the men, would be better. And just like that, I’ve made my way to 36, and what’s left in the wake is all the painful recollections of “relationships” I thought would make me feel more myself, more like a woman.
Ced. Malik. G. David. Let’s not forget all the Tinder dates I met at Busboys and Poets on 14th Street. And Steve. And Reggie. And others who shall not be named because some of yall would be in my business a little too much for my liking.
If anything, they left me more of a stranger to myself, robbing me of my sanity and integrity. But can I call it robbing if I voluntarily gave it away? I wasn’t a victim; I was primarily a participant in my own demise. This is not what bell hooks wants for me. And luckily, by the grace of the skies above, I no longer want this for myself.
Last month, I went on a date with this fine Black man from Chicago, with roots that run all the way back to Côte d’Ivoire. Just short of six and a half feet, a beautiful smile, succulent two-strand twists, and a body build that made me wonder if he played football back in the day. In reality, he was a software engineer, not yet 30, and already showing the signs of someone so committed to their work that they don’t see how much of it is to their overall detriment.
After a shared botana and our respective main dishes at a little Italian spot I’d never been to and will most likely never go again, we decided our time together wasn’t over. On to the Four Seasons we went, sitting outside with the heat lamp aglow and our bodies not far apart, we talked over a plate of overpriced cheesecake and hot toddies. I was reveling in his presence, while also playing it cool because I have a certain way of relating to men that starts to give heavy pick me, choose me, love me vibes, and that doesn’t fit the bad bitch energy I was giving off with my freshly shaved baldie and bold lip.
We eventually made it to his Airbnb, a loft not far off Reforma, where we held hands, kissed, and watched Tiny Desk, but not before his bonnet was put on. And who doesn’t love a man who protects his crown? And I think of how many men I’ve been willing to fuck my hair up over because I didn’t want to seem too human and put on a scarf. I don’t know the exact number, but I know it’s way too high.
We hit a j on the balcony, and he tells me about the tech startup he had been laid off from the year prior. How it’s nearly one something in the morning, and even though it’s a pretty woman in his space, his mind is on his new role. Even on vacation, he’s not on vacation. Like a wise sage, I talk about balance and tell this very grown man that he has to find some before this becomes his whole life.
I ask him how he feels, and he tells me, “alright.” I ask what ‘alright’ means because I’ve always been inquisitive, and because he’s a stranger, I don’t know what it means to him. He tells me it’s hard to express his feelings in the moment, and I applaud him for what feels like a massive moment of vulnerability. I can see him retreating inward just as quickly as he had popped out only a minute before. When I get home, I send him a message letting him know how much I enjoyed myself, but not without including a link to a feelings wheel because, from what I see, he needs help, and who am I not to provide it?
By the time I made it to my therapy session a week later, I was well aware of the aha moment that had surfaced. My identity in relationships is to be helpful, to earn my keep, to make someone, particularly men, see me as worth holding onto. In the words of strong independent women everywhere, girl STAND UP! Rarely, if ever, do I stop to ask myself, “Does this man add value to my life?” (spoiler alert: the cons have usually outweighed the pros) or even on a simpler level, does he make me happy?
I find myself performing, trying to become the best, most acceptable version of myself, even if that version is not me.
A version that wears my three-inch thigh-high boots even though I’d rather wear my high-top Converse, which are so well-loved that I’ve had them stitched together again several times.
A version that talks without really moving her mouth because she doesn’t want her red lipstick to smudge.
A version that listens to boring conversations willingly, like “so you really don’t want to get married?” or “you don’t meet many women who don’t want kids,” though there are hundreds more interesting topics to address.
I become a version of self that is more digestible because that’s what I , like many women, have been taught. I become a version that makes herself small because when it comes to relationships, that’s all I’ve known to do, and old patterns are hard to break, much harder than hearts that seem to shatter at the slightest inconvenience.
My therapist earns her check. These sessions, every other Tuesday, are not for nothing. For the most part, I always have something new to share, something I’ve become aware of that now needs a proper and professional unpacking. When she essentially told me I didn’t have to make a person into what I wanted them to be and that I could instead believe there was someone out there who could be both themselves and what I desired, I decided she was most deserving of the Nobel Peace Prize. It was such a simple, but powerful thing because where was she in my twenties as I settled for just okay just to say i was not alone?
When I proclaimed this to be my lover girl era, I didn’t expect all that would come with it. I am an old dog learning new tricks, and I catch myself fumbling over simple commands like sit and stay when I really want to flail around like I’ve lost all sense. Dating men often feels like a dummy mission and some type of humiliation kink. Which is why I’ve decided broaden my options, but more on that later.
At the end of January, I went on a date with a man who had just arrived from Berlin the day before. Six years my junior, but he reassured me that emotional intelligence wasn’t a direct correlation to age. He said all the right things. Asked all the right questions. Spearheaded all the correct conversations to be had with someone you don’t know, but want to know better.
And then we met.
We had a spirited “debate” about the n-word, which isn’t a debate to me as a Black woman talking to a non-Black person. Everyone wants to talk about the mad black woman, but never about the people who make it their life’s work to make us mad. There, on a bus headed to my favorite taco stand, some eight stops away in one of the largest cities in the world, I felt my guard coming up. The walls were indeed closing in.
I had been here before, but this ‘before’ had come over a decade earlier. With a man who had shown me from the very beginning that he would take me out of my peace and put me into an argumentative state whenever it felt like a fun time for him. Instead of walking away from him after our first date at a Mediterranean spot beside the Woodley Park metro station, where I often went for cheap apps and margaritas made with even cheaper liquor, I entered one of the most soul-sucking situations that I would be in for two years.
But this wasn’t then.
And I wasn’t this same girl desperate for any counterfeit chance at love. Before the night ended, I told this man from Berlin it wasn’t a romantic connection. But then I realized I didn’t even want a friend like that. The days of putting men before me for the sake of not being ‘too much’ are over. So I did what twenty-something-year-old me never had the strength to do: I sent this man a voicenote telling him I, in fact, did not want to stay connected. Because why do I owe anyone, especially a man, my time when they can’t even respect me? Exactly, I don’t.
And to that I say:
People comment on All About Love like it’s some easy beachside read, and it isn’t. I feel similarly about it as I do The Artist’s Way. Cute to have on your shelf, but difficult to work through and put into practice. When you realize that your idea of love isn’t healthy and your desire to be in a relationship is rooted in a reality that benefits from you not really liking yourself, you have to rethink some things. You have to ask some hard questions, with the first being “do I even love myself,” and there’s no way I can look at the connections of my yesteryears and say yes.
Yes, I dated some men who got on my absolute fucking nerves with their neediness and lack of confidence.
Yes, I dated some men who were liars and had me chase them out of DC coffee shops, demanding they give satisfactory answers for their actions.
Yes, I dated some men who cheated so often and acted so cruelly that even my grandpa, bless his soul, was ready to beat some ass.
Yes, I dated some men who were so intoxicating that I didn’t even realize I was under their spell until I was on the bus from U St back to my house off Benning Road in tears.
Yes, I was okay with hating myself if it meant I had someone, even if these were someone’s who were the antithesis of everything bell hooks preached about.
I’m finally in a place where I know that I alone am enough. I mean this in every way it can be meant, romantically, platonically, etc. I’m okay with saying no to others if it gives me an opportunity to say yes to myself and what I need. I’m okay with being single if it means no single person is actively playing in my face and calling it entertainment. So, as Jill Scott said, I don’t want no more nigga blues. And I’m rejecting anyone, man or otherwise, who tries to bring them my way.
question for reflection: What does it mean to love well?
🧵This essay is part of a larger tapestry. Follow the threads to more reflections like this one:
I am a creative nonfiction writer rooted in Mexico City, unpacking the tangled threads of life, death, and the beautifully messy moments in between. My essays explore grief, mental health, addiction, and the human condition, weaving together stories that leave you, the readers, feeling more connected and less alone. As a grief worker, I create intentional spaces for people worldwide to gather and share, guiding conversations that help us live more intimately with loss.
📸cover photo by Jamez Picard
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Girl this is a whole entire word - the self-awareness, the growth, the relatability! 👏🏾
you did it again, in the best ways. 🧡 i could have written this from my own location wooooo. and i love that we're both in our lover girl era & that that means choosing OURSELVES.
this was so uplifting to read. to remember that i too, have made some.. funky choices + decisions when it comes to dating men. and i too, am no longer shrinking or staying where i am dissatisfied, big or small.
i recently was "talking to" a man in hollywood and i remember telling my therapist about it and tell her that this man still gets the same treatment as any other man bc i have not worked THIS damn hard to do better only to let someone w/ fame + money take that from me.
and would you know the very next day i stopped speaking to that very man, while he crashed out via texts & voice memos for 3 days.. L O L.
but i feel so good knowing the old me would've still hopped on a flight to at least just go see him once & experience whatever "that life" could've entailed. nope. i'm satisfied knowing i stayed my ass here because i am entirely more worthy than what that experience would've left me with in the end.
cheers to you kamil, in your lover girl era, may it be the most incredible era yet! ✨🫶🏾😍