posted on: January 23, 2017
The day of her birthday we woke up early and sang to her. We then grabbed our bags and headed to the airport. The trip was so sweet and fun, and such an experience. A few photos of our trip below...
posted on: January 19, 2017
Just to keep it uniform, here are 10 things you need to know from the organizers:
posted on: January 17, 2017
Since I was a little girl, each and every time I went to church, a lump would lodge itself in my throat and I felt myself holding back tears. I didn't go often, but still, it happened. I'm not sure why or how, but maybe it's the sense of immense faith and otherness that makes me a little emotional. It's the sense of leaving your burdens at the door, and wrapping yourself in something far greater than you.
Art has always had the same affect on me. When I walk into a museum, it feels somewhat close to church. That sense that you are no longer you, you are whatever the pieces make of you. Art for me is solitary and moving. It's the single cure for all things mad in the world... instantly transporting me to a moment in time where only what is directly in my line of vision matters.
Today, I moseyed uptown to The Met Breuer to catch the last few days of Kerry James Marshall's Mastry. Have you had the chance to see it? It's simply moving. To be honest, it felt almost spiritual.
The exhibition ends January 29th, so be sure to get over there soon! Here's what the New York Times has to say about it.
Bottom photo via the New York Times
posted on: January 12, 2017
You've probably heard design experts rave that a small space needs white walls and little contrasting furniture. They'll tell you to layer in textures and books and art. And while I agree in all the layering needs if it so fits, I have to respectfully disagree with boxing yourself in the realm of white only. Yes, white walls do have the ability to open a space up, but there's something about the character that a bit of color on a wall or two brings to a home.
As an early cure to winter I bought a gallon of paint and went to work on our living room walls. And though we ended up changing around the entire apartment in the process, I could have very well stopped at the wall.
A few before and after pictures below if you'd like to see...
posted on: January 10, 2017
I couldn’t afford full meals, eating cup o' noodles when I could and counting pennies to pay rent. I went to house parties with my Dominican friends where I danced bachata and merengue and swayed my hips to words I barely understood. I got my heartbroken, obsessing over texts that went unanswered and ephemeral relationships. I barely spoke to my mother. I was a woman.
One afternoon I snaked through the busy streets of Midtown to meet my mother. My cheekbones sharp and my voice raspy. It was obvious, in my quest for womanhood, I was struggling. My mother asked me to come back home. I politely refused. She never pressed. She was a woman. I was a woman.
These days, my womanhood is pronounced in my hips and breastless bra. My womanhood looks a lot like cooking and cleaning; writing and making art; and raising a one-day woman and a boy who will respect women. I see the various degrees of what it means to be a woman. The many faces womanhood takes on. The many swings and punches we duck along the way.
On January 20th, while the sky is still dark and the garbage trucks still clank down the Brooklyn streets, I’ll bundle my body against the winter winds and tie the ragged laces on my kicks. I'll kiss the kids and leave Oak overnight for the very first time. I'll tell them that mommy is going to work. And I will be.
On January 21st, I'll exit my hotel with a group of girlfriends, I’ll hold a sign and will likely shed more tears than all the other marches of my adult years. Those sneakers will hit the pavement and go to work. Locked arm-in-arm, signing and shouting and standing together—women.
When I think of why I march, it's being a black woman. I've always been predisposed to injustice and judgment, even with the privilege of a white husband and a financially-stable family. I march because one day, not too far from now, my daughter will stand up to me and claim her own womanhood against my wishes. And in that moment, I'll look at all the things I've done, all the fights I've fought and the punches I missed and threw back, and I will have no choice but to back down. I'll trust her, because she'll be a woman.
"Women, if the soul of a nation is to be saved, I believe that you must become its soul,” Bernice King, sending her blessings to the march in the form of quote from her mother, Coretta Scott King.