The movie that defined a new generation of black men and women : Generation X, neo-soul retro New Negros.... Educated in Franz Fanon , Al Green, Malcolm X, and bell hooks. Eating turkey bacon and having brunch. Brown sugar babies. Brown skinned dapper dudes . Going to pretentious poetry spots, drinking dark liquor on ice and quoting Eldridge Cleaver and Maya Angelou while puffing on a L...on some new age philosophy which wasn't new at all. Black power, civil rights, and women's liberation- fed children.... At the cusp of the new millennium .
Love jones. Period.
The movie that defined me. Late teens/early 20s. Single handily my favorite movie of all time. How many times have I watched it? At Least 200. And that is no exaggeration .
I wanted to be Nina . I wanted to live in a fly ass loft. I wanted to be brown and glowing . I wanted to be sexy with a camera. I wanted to be so fly men were powerless around me. I wanted my stuff to be so good that dudes made cheese omelets in the morning. I wanted to smoke in dim clubs and kiss in the rain.
It wasn't about Nina though ....
But that damn Darius...
I wanted Darius to make poems about me on the spot. For his dick to talk to me. To run an Amtrak train platform looking for me. To grind on him in a reggae club. To go bananas and throw a typewriter because he's lost without me. I'd be his muse... To instantly connect with his friends. For me to be urgent to him ... Urgent than a muthafucker.
The ultimate romance complete with complication and subtlety .
And since I was 18 I've been looking for Darius Lovehall.
Where is he? I've come close. So close. Dated a few. Fell in infatuation with some. Hell, I even thought I married him. Well read, well bred , fly and smooth as silk brothers. The romantics but not romantic in that Eurocentric kind of way . Black folks romantic. Practical romance. But with an epic soundtrack .
I'm almost 33. For 15 years Darius has alluded me. Real love has alluded me. Dashed in and out but never stayed. I tried to not love those kind but I can't help it. My own personal aesthetic won't allow me to be matched with anything less. I need a "Darius".
This isn't to say I'm running around looking for a movie character or Larenz Tate himself. Oh no. Darius is symbolic. Darius is the epitome of black man swag (for lack of a better word) for my generation. And I don't think the Darius model is passé . My mother had Billy Dee Williams in "Mahogany". Hell ... My daddy worshiped at the shrine of Billy Dee flyness. That's how he got my mom. My generation... It's Darius. Billy Dee became Darius Lovehall.
But where is he??
I wonder when the search for my Darius will grow old . Am I going to get tired and realize he's just a figment of my teenage imagination . That he's just a character and there are no real brothers out there even close....
But Darius's words ring in my ears...
" Romance is about the possibility of things. You see it's about the time between when you first meet some fine ass woman and when you first make love to her. And when you first ask a woman to marry you and when she says I do. When people that have been together for a long time say the romance is gone, what they're really saying is that they've exhausted the possibilitties.."
I believe in the possible. I'm not ready to throw in the towel.
Darius is still out there waiting for me.
I used to make these lofty, resolution goals each year. The older I got, the grander my ideas became. That is until I reached the age of 30 and my entire life shifted.
At the time, I was divorced, living totally on my own, trying to rebuild myself financially and trying to figure out my next move toward happiness. That was at the time I started this blog.... which started out as my chronicling the dating and mating of a 30 something divorcee' in the South's Largest Metropolis. I was trying to date. I was trying to establish myself financially. And I was trying to find my purpose.
So much has changed in the almost 9 years since I started this blog. I've traveled alone. I gained and lost friends. I got into a Ph.D. program. I got re-married. I lost my mother, my best friend.... not to mention my uncle, cousin, and aunt. I gained a sweet baby girl. I went from getting my bliss.... to trying to balance that bliss with my own life..... Yet in trying to find the balance, I alw…
My 39th birthday is in two weeks. *sigh*
You know, I feel like I write the same type of blog around my birthday every year. I get extremely introspective and pensive about the whole thing. But this is my last year of my 30s and I am feeling all of the feelings that have ever and could be felt. I hate trying to bring this up to folks.. who are always wanting to remind you of "well.. you got this.. you got that...". As if you haven't dealt with depression long enough to realize it doesn't matter what you have... if one piece is missing.. it throws it all off.
While yesterday was the 3rd anniversary of my mom's passing, I realized she wouldn't be here for my 40th. That was a hard pill to swallow. I thought for sure we'd be celebrating a lot that year... my Ph.D... a baby... a big, fancy car..... all of that. I only have one of those things so far but still... I was hoping that having her hold on at least until then would be the icing on my cake.
My life feels…
I had hoped for other hair... (My Little One Reading a Book Before Bed) ... for my daughter.
No, I didn't want her to have "good hair"... hair that ebbed and flowed close to the weight of Whiteness. I didn't want that for her. I didn't want her to have hair that was deemed "managable" or "a good grade". as if you can give hair letter grades or grade it on a curve.
I just wanted her to have any hair other than MY hair. She inherited my hair. And I cried.
When I found out I was having a girl, anxiety was replaced with dread. "Dear God.. I have to learn how to do hair". See, growing up, my mother was my stylist, even way into high school. So in between salon visits, she would relax or press my hair. She'd style it or comb it. And I never worried about it. I tried and tried to do my own hair... and failed. The only style I could keep up were Brandy-inspired box braids (which some poor, Senegalese woman would do for hours) or a very sho…