GoldingGirl.com

Bossman Diaries: The Pre-Game

November 26, 2012 in Bossman Diaries, Uncategorized with 0 Comments

It’s been two months since I got the new gig and to be honest, It’s felt more like eight years.

“Hey Shenequa, on Thursday, print out all your task assignments and writing you’ve done so we can talk about your progress thus far.” Bossman said.

A sharp-hot fear ran down my spine. He didn’t drop the E-word but I knew this “sit down” was a pre-game to an evaluation.

Throughout the week I gathered all my assignments I completed, and finished some I never got a chance to start.

PEEP: Bossman Diaries: So You Think You Can Do This?

“Shenequa, you ready? Let’s step outside get some coffee or something.”

The sky was bruised with blotches of purples and strawberry-reds as the sun was setting. Bossman wrapped his arms around his chest and fought through the cold while we made our way to a cozy bakery.

“You want something? Coffee? Tea?

“Tea with honey, please.”

Bossman walked over to our window seat which overlooked Midtown during rush hour. It was then I put my manila envelope with assignments on the table.

“So Shenequa wassup? How we doing? How we feeling?

“I’m well,” I said.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m good,” I said as I sipped my tea.

“I know you well enough to know when you’re hiding something.”

Bossman was right. Between trying to balance writing at the gig, being his assistant and the constant meeting-after- meeting vortex I was being sucked into, I was having a hard time getting all my work done.

PEEP: Bossman Diaries: I’m Not Going To Tell You You’re Great.

“I think I need to get better with my time management,” I said. “That, and I hate the editing the process.”

“What do you mean?” Bossman asked while peeling a banana.

“When I was in my old newsroom, my editor would give me an assignment, I’d do my reporting, hand the story in, she’d edit it and that be it,” I said. “Here, I can do a story, and then go through two or three edits and it still not be right. I wrote my Lincoln review four times!”

“Well listen,” he said in between bites of his banana” “It’ll be right when it’s right.”

“What?”

“You’re a good writer, Shenequa. You’re not great so it’s going to take several edits before you get it right,” Bossman said. “So this one-off shit you think is going to happen…”

We both laughed.

“But I feel like I’m wasting time,” I said.

“You’re not wasting time. Writing is re-writing. You know that. It took you four times to get your story done because your voice wasn’t there. When you put your voice there, that’s when it was right”

As usual, Bossman was right. I tried writing that particular review the way I thought it should be written, not the way I would normally write it. Okay, two points for him.

“The only thing I can say is now you aren’t as focused as you were when you got here.”

*Uppercut to ego and work ethic*

“What do you mean?” I asked already knowing the answer to my own question.

“Look, for the most part, you’re doing great work. But when you first got here, you had this laser-sharp focus. Now it seems like you’re a bit all over the place,” Bossman said.

If you’re a career-hungry Jane like myself, hearing that your focus has fallen off, even slightly will place you on suicide watch. I could’ve argued I have more responsibility and all the meetings I have to attend, but that’s a portion of it. To be honest, I’ve gotten to know my co-workers and we’re a chatty bunch. Every time a topic or conversation pops up, I’m right in the middle of it. If I would like to remain employed, that’s gotta stop.

“Okay,” I said finishing my tea. “I’ll get back to that laser-sharp focus.”

“Good! So, you’re gonna stay with me for another month or so?”

“Bet! You’re gonna up my pay?” I asked.

“Yeah, aight.” Bossman laughed.

Lesson Of The Day: Stay Focused. Don’t Mess Up A Good Thing

Green dot. Red dot. Yellow dot.

October 31, 2012 in ...And I'm Done!, Are You Serious?, Boys! Boys! Boys!, Things that make you go hmmm, Uncategorized with 1 Comment

“Whatchu doing Friday night?”

My co-worker Dani and I were burning the midnight oil and were the only two left in the office. In between last-minute edits we tried to conjure up some weekend plans.

“Um, probably nothing,” I said as I typed away. “Most likely heading back to Queens.”

“You wanna go with me to this speed dating thingamajig Friday night?”

My initial thought was no. After my last situation with Mr. Anonymous, I gave up on The Penises. It’s too much trying to navigate this dating game and I’m so tired of getting hurt. To avoid it all, I’ve just been laying low.

Charmaine’s daughter!” Dani yelled. ”C’mon. It’ll be fun. I promise. You can be the wing man or wing woman. C’monnnnnnnn”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll go?”

The next day, Dani and I made our way to 36th and 8th. The spacious loft was divided into different rooms. For folks who wanted to showcase their architectural skills and play Jenga, you mingled in the game room. For the Janes and Johns who wanted to play Spades to the death, you stayed in a different room. Since Halloween is around the corner, folks came in costumes. Everyone from a member of the Jabbawockeez to Inspector Gadget showed up.

“Hi, Welcome” a Jane dressed up as a cowgirl said. “What’s your name and will you be wearing a green dot for single, yellow for it’s complicated or red for taken?”

We gave our names and shamelessly asked for a green dot to accompany our name tags. To the immediate right was a tray of shots with the sign TRICK or TREAT.

“Okay ladies, before you walk in, feel free to take a shot.”

Dani took a glass, and by the look on her face, I could tell she just downed some alcohol.

“Girl, I think I got hair on my chest,” she said.

I picked up a glass and readied myself for the same fate.

“Girl, this is Seltzer water!” I said with an attitude. “How come I got Seltzer water?”

“Oh, you got tricked,” she said.

We walked around for a bit when Dani found this cutie named Shawn. He was dressed as a bus driver. Within moments, conversation was going and Dani turned up her charm. As the wing woman, I played the back religiously checking my Facebook and Twitter.

“Yeah, Ima get Shawn’s number,” Dani said.

All was going well. Dani kept the conversation going and made everyone laugh and it seemed like they hit it off.

Now, Johns, here’s a disclaimer: If you want to see if the Jane you’re talking to is a bit of a hoe, wait until Halloween. The hoes will use this holiday as an excuse to dress up as a French Maid, Playboy bunny or whatever scantily clad person they can. This speed-dating event was no different.

Shawn was the cutest guy of the night, who also donned a green dot beside his name tag, which meant the Janes would use any and everything possible to get his attention.

We all sat down to play UNO. I opted out the first game to watch. While Dani’s jokes and charm were on a hundred-thousand trillion, Janes literally stopped our game to ask to take photos with “The Bus Driver” or just had to tell Shawn how great of an idea it was to be dressed up as a bus driver.

The thirst–no better yet–the dehydration was so palpable, I wanted to offer the Janes bottles of Poland Spring! Obviously they were parched.

As the night progressed a few more of our friends showed up and I got to thinking. Although the event was intended to be an alternative to the bar/club scene it didn’t feel authentic. Yes, everyone was there to potentially walk away with a number. But it was so forced. Between the cattiness and the obvious “I want Shawn’s attention, why is he talking to her” glares Dani and I were getting, I was just turned off.

“Hey Dani, I’m out. I can’t really do this. The energy here is off.”

She gave me a sad face as I kissed her cheek. I walked out and across the street to get some White Castle then Penn Station.

As I boarded my train I thought about the speed-dating extravaganza. It only confirmed what I know about myself: I’m the monogamous type. I don’t like dating nor do I know how to date. I’d rather just be with my John and it be him and I against the world.

Maybe I’m too much of a romantic. I want to meet my John like they do in the movies, while doing laundry, walking down the street, at a bookstore or a coffee shop. Somewhere where the element of competition from other dehydrated Janes isn’t around.

And yes, that loft was a microcosm for the dating field, 100,000 Janes to every two Johns, but I just don’t want to have to vie for any man’s attention. Either they dig me or they don’t. I’m not saying I have all the dating answers, but I know that when a man digs you, he really digs you. Nothing or no one can keep him away.

I hope Dani was able to snag Shawn’s number. They had good chemistry. Me on the other hand, I went back to Queens to chop it up with Charmaine.

God will introduce me to my John. So I’m not worried.

Freshman Year

October 29, 2012 in Are You Serious?, I'm Looking For This Place Called Success., The Little Light-Skin Homie, Uncategorized with 1 Comment

I don’t remember what I was doing. I might’ve been Facebook-ing my life away or checking my interactions on Twitter for the gazzionlith time, when my co-worker dropped a bomb.

“The Weeknd is having a listening party Wednesday. Wanna come?” he asked. ”Bossman got invited, but if he doesn’t go, maybe you can go in his place.”

I said a prayer to the scheduling Gods, hoping he couldn’t attend before walking into his office to ask.

“Hey Bossman, I just found out about an event that you got invited to.”

“Really?” he asked staring at his computer screen. “Who is it? What’s it about?”

“Oh, just The Weeknd,” trying to play it down.

“Ah man. I should go to that.”

SHIT!

“When is it?” he asked.

“Tomorrow night.”

“I can’t. It’s my daughter’s birthday,” he said finally looking up from his screen. ”You wanna go?

“Sure!” I said.

I ran out of his office before he could renege and did the Victor Cruz Salsa touchdown dance.

The next day, my editor and I made our way downtown to New York’s swanky Meatpacking district. I was excited but a little nervous about attending. I’ve never been to any industry event and didn’t know the protocol. I didn’t want to look like a new jack. Once the bouncer pulled the velvet rope, we walked through a small corridor where we heard songs from House of Balloons.

The quaint lounge was lined with plush charcoal couches, black ottomans and black velvet curtains. As the waitstaff served drinks and hors d’oeuvres I scanned the room.

“So the event is sponsored by Hennessy, so that means any Hennessy drink is free,” my editor said.

Within 20 minutes, people started to fill the tight space, and instantly I was back in high school. I quietly stayed next to my editor as he pointed out who everyone was.

“You see that kid,” he said pointing his finger and sipping his drink. “Him, with the Jordans. He’s from MTV.”

“Oh, and that dude with the studded black snap back, he’s from Stuff Fly People Like, ” he said. “But he’s super nice.”

“Remember the video director that came in the office two weeks ago? The one who worked with Nas? He’s right there.”

“Oh and you know who that guy is!”

All the popular kids were by the bar. The fashionable cats stood in the center and the pretty girls strategically figured out how to “excuse me” between all the cute guys so we could all get a look at their ass.

There was no real depth in the conversations being had. A lot of people were either in between shaking hands and doing the pleasantness or updating their Facebook and Twitter.

“Once you start coming to more events you’ll know more people,” my editor said.

As the music played, I noticed the bevy of hugs and kisses being given and received. Everyone seemed to have a pitch in one hand and a drink in another. I heard so many preliminary business transactions at the listening party, I wondered if this lounge was really a boardroom.

I went to the bathroom to freshen up my lipstick and let out a big sigh. It took me 18 months to get this job and to be in these circles. Now I’m here and I have to work even harder for people to even recognize me!

“Shenequa, you’re a freshman. No one knows you,” I said to myself. ”You have to start all over again.”

As the realization of all the work I’d have to do sunk in, I got all emo. I was in a room filled with industry vets who have made a name for themselves. How the hell was I going to make an impression with just a room filled with them?

“Is someone in here?” some girl banged on the bathroom door.

I snapped out of my moment, took a deep breath and went back outside.

I didn’t have enough courage to introduce myself to anyone. I was quiet the whole time. What would I say? “Hi, I’m Shenequa, I’m a low-level editorial assistant?”

“Hey, I’m out,” I told my co-worker. “I’ve got a long commute.”

As I finished up the last of my drink, I placed the empty cup on top of the bar, wrapped my scarf around my neck and walked out.

“You’ve got a lot more work to do, Shenequa.” I said to myself. ”No one knows about GoldingGirl.com. No one in there knows about you’re writing. You’ve got to STEP. IT. UP!”

I was in mid-thought when I saw someone emerge from a black Navigator jeep. Men dressed in black suits and ear pieces stood their ground to make sure no one could get too close.

“Wait is that?” I said.

I got a little closer and looked a little harder. And as one leg touched the concrete, then another, I saw his face.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” one of the security guards said. “Please step aside.”

Of course as I’m walking out The Weeknd walks in. I could’ve easily turned back around and snapped a picture, but I continued home.

I know the kind of impact I want to make in this entertainment/journalism industry. I know the kind of writer I want to be. I’m not saying when I walk in the room, people need to automatically know my name, but they damn sure gonna know my work!

For so long I just wanted to get where I am. I didn’t have a plan for actually making it and getting a gig.

Now I have my dream job and I realize, it’s only the beginning.

Bossman Diaries: “I’m Not Going to Tell You You’re Great”

October 1, 2012 in Bossman Diaries, Get ya girl!, How Could I Be So Stupid?, I hate my 20s, I probably shouldn't say this., Uncategorized with 0 Comments

Bossman and I were getting into the swing of things. Every morning he’d glance over the newsroom to see who was there. I made it my business to be at my desk before his arrival.

“Shenequa” he beckoned.”Come into my office so I can give you your assignment.”

My desk is a commercial break away from his office door, so there’s no oh I didn’t hear you excuse I can use.

Bossman is a tall dude; 6’3 on sunny days. Although in his early 40s, he listened to De La Soul, Tribe Called Quest and other Hip Hop forefathers growing up. He may be on the way to AARP status but he’s still connected to the culture.

“How’s it going? You alright?” Bossman asked.

“Yes sir,” I said with a nervous smile as I took a seat. “I’m okay.

“Alright, well this is what I need today.”

He took out his iPhone, I, my notepad and pen.

“Did you ever find that publicist I asked about? Also, I need you to update my address book. Can you find my last interview I did and transcribe it? Make sure all the really good quotes are double-spaced and underlined, please? Oh and don’t forget to finish writing that story we discussed in yesterday’s morning meeting. I need that up on the web ASAP. Did you ever find out what magazine that editor is at?

With unprecedented speed, Bossman rattled off a list of things for me to do. My hand couldn’t move fast enough and before I knew it, half of my notepad was filled.

“And that’s it for now. Cool?

Overwhelmed by the magnitude of work, I’m surprised I didn’t burst into flames. Instead I kept a poker face.

“Cool.” I replied.

I made a B-line to the bathroom, closed the stall behind me and sat on the toliet, rubbing my temples.

Lord, this man just threw his entire life at me. Please, help me get through this.

I walked back to my seat and started working. One-by-one I knocked out all the tasks given to me. I had to sacrifice lunch, but by late afternoon I was finished.

“Shenequa. Come here for a second.”

Earlier in the week, Bossman gave me the heads up about a potential interview he was waiting to get the green light on. In between me scrambling to get everything done, Bossman locked in a date and time.

“So listen, you’re going up to Harlem tomorrow. You know Harlem?

“Yes.”

“Good. You’re going up to Harlem to interview this black ballerina. Make sure to be respectful, nice, get her background so you can write a story.”

“Okay.”

“Have fun, he said extending his arm for a high-five. “Don’t fuck it up!”

After the interview the next day, I sat at my desk and wrote. I wasn’t nervous per se, however, I did want it to be great. Bossman isn’t too shabby of a writer, and a pretty decent line editor. Being as though this was my first story he was going to edit, I wanted the least amount of corrections as possible.

After the 19th spell check and reading it out loud 20 times, I printed out a copy of my story. I walked in his office and sat at his desk as he gave me my first real edit in almost two years.

“Capital B for black.” he mumbled.

“Good quote,” he said.

“This last line is kind of lazy,” he said underlining it. ”Fix that. Make it stronger.”

“What did she mean by ‘in the barrel?’ ” he asked as he circled the phrase. “Explain that better to the reader.”

“Make this sentence more declarative. Maybe add a dash here so the reader can feel the emotion.”

“Okay give me some more background here.”

“How many words did I say? 350? Yeah, make it 550. Give me some more meat.”

The black Arial narrow font on my paper was soon littered with his edits. I listened to everything he said and waited for his overall critique.

In a swift motion, Bossman placed the pen cap in his mouth, gave my story the once over and slid it across the desk to me.

“Good.”

“Just good?” I asked. “I’m not here to be good, I want it to be great.”

“Well look, I’m not going to tell you you’re great.” he said.

*Record stops*

“Wait. What?”

“I’m not going to tell you you’re great, because I’m not great, number one. Number two, you wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t write. You turned that story around pretty quickly, and number three, when I say good, my good is really great. But I’m not going to tell you that all the time. You’ve got a year before I say that…and that’s wassup!” he said walking out his office.

We both laughed.

As I walked back to my desk, I took a look at his notes and made my corrections to the story. I felt kind of bad once I thought about. I’ve been at the new gig all of 30 minutes and I was already jumping down my boss’ throat because he wasn’t nominating me for a Pulitzer.

Lesson of The Day: Chill young grasshopper, you just got here. You gotta get your weight up first!

Bossman Diaries: “So You Think You Can Do This?”

September 24, 2012 in Are You Serious?, Bossman Diaries, Epic!, Gnarley!, I'm Looking For This Place Called Success., Way Boss! with 7 Comments

anoncentral.tumblr.com

My cover letter had to be flawless if I wanted a fighting chance at this job.

A few weeks back I asked my mentor if she knew of anyone who needed an assistant. I’ve been writing professionally for about seven years and was confident I was past intern, but beggars can’t be choosers. So if she had a connect with Shakespeare and he needed someone to give him a shape-up, I was willing to do it!

Over Labor Day Weekend, my mentor gave me an email address to a well known and respected media head.

“You still looking for an internship?” she asked. “Do some research on this guy. When you’re done send him your resume, cover letter and some clips. Good luck!

I didn’t have to research this dude. Anyone who knows anything about media and magazines knows his name.

So I sat at my laptop and began writing. In the past, my cover letters were nothing to write home about but I wanted this job, so this had to be different.

Hello

Unlike a lot of girls growing up, I didn’t see nor understand the excitement when it came to playing with dolls. I oftentimes passed on the opportunity to comb Barbie’s hair, or get her spiffy for a date with Ken.

Instead, I salivated at the chance to sit down and read magazines that gave me even the smallest detail about my teen crush, or taught me something new. I was 7 years old when I thumbed through the first VIBE issue with Treach on the cover. I always rushed to buy XXL’s annual Freshman Class issue and I melted when I saw Beyoncé giving the camera a sexy and powerful look on GIANT’s cover. Magazines were my escape from a loving, yet over-protective mom.

After the 30th spell check and reading it out loud 67 times, I attached it with my resume and hit send. But I was so focused on making sure there were no mistakes in my cover letter, I neglected to pay attention to the email itself.

In the subject of the email I spelled my mentor’s name wrong! The woman who told me about the job, I spelled her name wrong. I must’ve been high off Elmer’s Glue because how I could do that?

As a writer, one misspelled word and my resume and cover letter are thrown out the window. Once I saw my mistake, I immediately wanted someone to shoot me in the face.

I went to Charmaine in tears.

“Mommy, I can’t believe I did that!” crying. “What am I going to do?”

“Pray, Chin,” she said. “I’m a big fan of prayer. It works better than worrying.”

So I did.

I prayed he didn’t see the mistake and overlooked it. But my business manager had a better idea.

“Just re-send the email,” he said. “Hopefully, he’ll see the second without the mistake as opposed to the first one with the mistake.”

So I took his advice and resent the email. The next day he responded.

Hi Shenequa,

Thanks for sending the materials. Impressive stuff.

Can you come in and interview with me tmrw @430p?

I damn-near fainted on New York City sidewalk after I read that! What? An interview! This was better than buy one, get one half off!

The next day, I made my way to his swanky Midtown office. While waiting in the reception area, I had to quiet the piranhas-not butterflies-that were in my stomach.

“Hi Shenequa,” he said shaking my hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

In his office celebrities he interviewed on magazine covers decorated the walls. A sleek Mac Book and two blue Uno cards laid right next to the photos of him and his children on his desk. A hand-drawn picture with the word DADDY scribbled across the top in third-grade hand writing held the highest place among the celebs.

“So Shenequa,” he said playing with his wedding band. “Tell me about yourself.”

We talked for an hour about the position, about writing, about what he wants in a writing assistant and randomly, his Zodiac sign.

“So Shenequa, you think you can do this?”

“Yes, sir” I said with as much conviction as my nerves would allow.

He told me I’d hear back from him in about a day or two, which meant the next 24-48 hours would be death.

On the train ride home I prayed so much I almost missed my stop. Before I went to bed, I prayed. Woke up the next morning and prayed. That night, I chopped it up with the big homie Jesus AGAIN! If all I could do at that point was pray, then I was going to exercise that usage to the wheels fell off.

Then Friday came and I got a phone call.

“So Shenequa, I just want to say thank you for coming in and for your time.” he said. “You come highly recommended and you’re a strong writer.”

I felt like he was softening a blow and was about to tell me he found someone a bit more “suitable for the job.”

“So I just wanted to know if you’d like to be my writing assistant?

I screamed so loud, the poor man was probably temporarily deaf!

After two years of applying, and hearing nothing and writing and feeling like no one was reading, this media executive sat down with me and in 60 minutes saw what I’ve been trying to show other people for two years!

Once he and I got off the phone I was so overcome with gratitude all I could say to God was thank you. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! With tears streaming down my eyes and ugly-crying by myself I continued to say thank you!

Yes! The GoldingGirl is finally winning.

Salt-Water Prayers

September 18, 2012 in Are You Serious?, Being An Adult (Which Sucks Major Ass), Boys! Boys! Boys!, Things that make you go hmmm, Uncategorized with 9 Comments

It was 1:30 on a muggy June morning. I had just woken up from a nap when my phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Shenequa?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

A mutual friend of JB and I called. You all remember the Jersey Boi, right? He was the tall, dark and handsome John that had all the time in the world, but conveniently became ”busy” after we had sex.

Any reminder of JB brought about a deep, sunken feeling of regret. So the attitude I gave over the phone wasn’t necessary, but it was automatic.

“I don’t know if you know or if you’ve heard but um,” she paused to gather herself. ”JB passed away.”

“What?!” I said with more shock than outrage.

“Jersey Boi. He passed away. I didn’t know if you knew or not.” she said as her voice trembled.

My eyes watered and my jaw fell to the floor as I was given the details of his death.

“I’m sorry, Shenequa.”

I placed my hand on my pounding heart, holding it, comforting myself as the ripple effects of the news ran through me.

Dead?

Without realizing it I started to cry. Not weep, just cry simple-single tears. I cried out of confusion. Bewilderment. Shock. I cried because that’s all I could do.

For months, I held onto foolish resentment. I asked God to give me a good hair day and a cute outfit so I could randomly bump into him. I hoped he would feel the bite of regret, or he would one day get treated as cavalierly as he treated me and be just as hurt.

“Wheh…wheh…when? I asked as my voice stuttered.

“April.”

“April!” I screamed. “It’s June! That was two months ago!”

“I know, Shenequa. I know.”

He’s been dead for two months?

Despite hearing about JB’s death it didn’t register. It didn’t connect. I scoured the Internet looking for information and found his online obituary. That’s when it became real.

I went on his Facebook page to see the heartfelt comments from his friends and family and thought back to our last encounter not knowing the last time I saw him would be the last time I would see him.

Let’s not mince words: JB hurt me. After we had sex, he was suddenly ”busy” and the lackluster chase I put up, was now over, so he moved on.

And while I wanted JB to hurt, this was too much.

Deep down under my own pain and shame, I hoped one day we would talk with rational minds and calm hearts and come to an understanding, maybe even laugh and hug afterwards.

As I thought about how angry I was with him, I became so embarrassed. I sat on my couch, and looked up at the ceiling as more salt-water tears fell from the corners of my eyes.

Lord, please forgive me. Forgive me for carrying all this resentment around. Forgive me for being angry with him, to the point of hate. Forgive me for wishing and hoping he too would get his heart broken. Please forgive me, lord. Please forgive me.

I’ll never get the chance to tell him how I felt because I subscribed to the doctrine of not letting them see you sweat. So when the pain of his actions hit me I cut him off, too prideful to let him know.

In the days after learning about JB, I thought about death and its permanence. Growing up, I didn’t encounter a lot of loss, so although I understand I will never see JB again, the idea is still foreign to me.

I sat on this post for months wrestling within myself when to publish it, if I should publish it not wanting to irritate an old wound, but still needing to get it out of my system.

I thought about all things I would say to him. I thought about the hope a reconciliation might bring. I thought about potentially being cordial or just closure that could’ve happened. I thought about how fragile life is, my mortality, and how I desperately wished things ended differently between us.

Despite it all, JB was a funny dude, a smart guy and a fellow creative. As harsh as this may sound, I’m thankful I don’t miss him. That’s a pain I wouldn’t begin to figure out how to numb. But-and this is the only word I can come up with-it doesn’t feel “accurate” knowing he’s not here.

So JB, I know it’s too late and I know you can’t read this, but I would like to hope that if you could, you would maybe join me for a cup of coffee…just because.

Fin: What 30in30 Taught Me

August 31, 2012 in ...And I'm Done!, 30 in 30, Awesomeness, I'm Looking For This Place Called Success., Righteous!, The Little Light-Skin Homie, Uncategorized with 2 Comments

Okay, let’s be honest.

How many of ya’ll really thought I’d complete this 30in30 challenge? Be real! Did you all think I’d be able to pull off 30 posts in 30 days straight?!

Well to be honest, I didn’t think I would. I surprised myself by making it to the end.

You see in life when things have gotten tough, or just inconvenient, I’ve thrown my hands in the air. I’ve made a career out of quitting. So when I agreed to this challenge I was scared Shenequa would get in the way of Shenequa’s success.

Well I didn’t, which taught me a lot. So here’s my list of things I learned during these 30 days.

Ready?

1-Never again!

I don’t care if William Shakespeare himself comes back from the dead and challenges me to another 30in30 I’M. NOT. DOING. IT! This was the most mentally exhausting challenge ever in life and I refuse to put myself through it again. I did this to prove to me it could be done and I went for the gold, but I won’t be Michael Phelps-ing it. Nope! I got my one gold medal and that’s more than good enough for me.

2-Ink in my veins

A writer I admire, Aliya S. King, sounded the alarm and challenged everyone who fancied themselves a “scribe” to partake. To be honest, I felt if I didn’t throw my hat in she’d look at me like I wasn’t serious about writing, so I said yes. The minute I agreed, I regretted it because if I didn’t keep up with my posts, I thought Ms. King would give me a side eye. Not something a new up-and-coming writer should merit from a veteran like her. But despite getting restless, losing sleep and sometimes not wanting to write, I still did it, which told me this writing thing is more than just scribble scrabble. It’s a love.

3-Writing every day isn’t the bees-knees

Prior to this challenge (when life was rosier) I wrote once, maybe twice a week. Once I started writing everyday I began to feel rushed, ambushed and pressured. My mind desperately and frantically searched for content and while some days I had some dope stories, others, in my opinion, weren’t up to par. For me, I need a day or two in between to collect my thoughts, formulate ideas or just to breathe. I won’t write everyday after this, but you may get three stories a week from me from now on.

4-Dedication! Dedication! Dedication!

You all know all I want to do is write great stories, have you all read them, and get paid for it. I sing this song all the time. However, chasing that dream requires dedication, something I didn’t know I had. On top of writing every (bloody) day, I looked for writing gigs, applied to internships, wrote several cover letters for the gigs I was applying for, plus worked on pitches for other magazines. My pen wouldn’t stop and I still wrote my daily blog post. Why? Because I was dedicated to it, just like I’m dedicated to this dream. I didn’t know that before. I do now.

5-Stories are a dime a dozen

Some days I couldn’t pay someone for inspiration. Other days it was right under my nose. I would walk down the block and hear a conversation and then an idea would pop in my head, or It could be as simple as talking to Charmaine and then boom! I’ve got a post on my hands. Looking back on this past month, I thought too much and didn’t let the stories come to me, which in my opinion, resulted in some lackluster writing. But when I let go, God gave me some dopeness.

6-If I’m nervous, write about it!

I wrote about another guy that disappointed me, which was embarrassing. I wrote in extensive detail about my daddy issues. I wrote about getting tested for H.I.V/A.I.D.S, hell, I even wrote about how I got my nick name, Chin Chin with a less than flattering baby picture to boot! All those topics I touched on scared me. I wondered if I would be judged, or if someone would point fingers or leave a hurtful comment. But that fear and nervousness propelled me to write about those topics with ease because I knew if it scared me, then it would register with you!

7-No excuses= results

I wanted to finish this challenge despite my own self sabotaging ways and you know what? I did! I didn’t make any excuses. I didn’t allow any distraction to get in the way. I simply took it one day at a time, and eventually day one, turned into day seven. Day seven turned into day 14 and booyaoww! I’m here at day 30. Hallelujah!

I’m proud of myself. I set out to do something and I accomplished it. I’m going to treat myself by not writing for about 17 whole days. I’m not going to write a thing. I think I’ve earned a sabbatical, no? But when I come back, I’ll have a story out this world. I promise.

So until then…

2 fingers!

Call me Chin Chin

August 30, 2012 in 30 in 30, Charmaine, The Little Light-Skin Homie, Uncategorized with 2 Comments

I’m not sure if I ever gave you guys the history on my name. No. Not Shenequa. My other name. The name that Charmaine and the rest of my family refuse to let go of.

Chin Chin.

Back in my lunchbox and nap time days, I wasn’t able to stray too far from the front stoop. So all the kids on my block had to come to my house.

My neighbor, this one Asian kid. I forget his name, had an older brother named Ruguy. (Pronounced Roo-GUY) I’m not sure what illegal activities he fancied, but he hung out with all the “thugs” in my ‘hood.

But I digress.

I don’t know if Ruguy wasn’t aware of what my name was, or was looking for a fun way to remix the pronunciation of it, but out of no where he looked at me and said “Chin Chin.”

I might’ve been all of 4 years old, so protesting an adult command just wasn’t an option. However, not even making a sad face or letting out as much as cry, may have stopped what turned into being a birth mark of sorts.

For whatever reason, Chin Chin stuck. All of my older cousin’s friends in the neighborhood started calling me Chin Chin and before I knew it, I was responding to it.

When I was in grammar school, it was fine. I couldn’t go out on my own, so my pet name was quarantined to the four walls of my house.

But when I got to middle school, and when Charmaine loosened up the leash she had me on, somehow someway my shameful nickname started following me.

“Alright mommy, as soon as the movie is over, me and Bree will come right back home.”

“Okay Chin Chin.” Charmaine said. “Have fun.”

“What did she just call you, ” Bree asked.

“Nothing!” I said rushing Bree along. “It was nothing.”

Once I turned 13, I swore I was grown. I tried my hardest to ignore my family when they called me Chin Chin, but suffered way too many blows and decided it just be best if I responded.

There’s something humiliating but oddly comforting about pet names. It’s a constant reminder of where you come from and you’re beginnings. But nicknames also keep you grounded and provide as benchmark for how far you’ve come.

Once I turned 18 a lot of things changed. I got my first tattoo, lost my virginity, and got my first wicked short hair cut. I was also was headed for college. So in honor of my new found adulthood, Charmaine dubbed me a new name.

“Miss. Chinnnnnnn” she said teasing. “You’re going to college. Whoa!”

I didn’t realize the significance of it then, but by dropping one Chin and adding a Miss to it, Charmaine let me know she was now viewing me as an adult, which even I had to get used to.

Once the name Miss Chin came into play, other variations came along too. On any given day, a relative can call me Chin. Chinny-Wins. Ms. Chin. Chinny-Chin-Chin. I mean, it’s just never ending.

I’m 27 years old now, and don’t cringe when Charmaine and I are shopping in Target and she screams, “Chin, pick up some wipes!”

Although I grew up thinking I had the worst pet name ever in life, I’ve learned to appreciate it. I’m not embarrassed by it and hearing it brings me back to my lowercase letter, happy meal days.

It’s a nice reminder and while I’m not little Chin Chin anymore, I think that little girl might be proud of the woman I am today.

New York New York

August 30, 2012 in 30 in 30, I really shouldn't say this, Things that make you go hmmm with 1 Comment

I was 15 minutes away from home when some fuckstick decided he or she wanted to clip his or her fingernails on a public New York City train!

I was sitting in the corner in one of the those two-seaters. My eyes were closed and I began to feel the weight of the day throughout my body. Suddenly, I hear this sharp sound of a nail clipper.

Clip.

The first time I heard the piercing sound, I ignored it. But then this shitwad decided that he or she needed a full-on manicure.

Clip.

Clip. Clipity Clip. Clip.

I, along with the rest of the train passengers began looking around for the culprit. I was too far away to side eye the swamp donkey, but a few fellow civilized New Yorkers did my dirty work for me.

Now, when you live in this city, you’re bound to come across some mess. Within a four-block radius, you can very well run into the Pope, the paparazzi, run over a few pedestrians who believe crossing during a green light is totally okay and maybe a posh celeb.

However, I firmly believe my city, my home, is also the Mecca for some of the most inconsiderate shit stains ever in life!

(Pardon the vulgarity, but I’m vex)

The clipping of one’s finger nails in a twisted way, may have been that passengers idea of going Green, but it isn’t the worst, most inconsiderate thing I’ve endured during my daily commute.

Sometimes, your cousin Rakeem (yes, he’s your cousin) will get on the train and leave his headphones at home. But if you think that’s going to stop him from listening to Gucci’s Greatest Hits, oh, you’re wrong! Not only will he blast his iPhone to the highest volume, but he’ll rap along with Gucci like both of them were in the cypha!

But on the days Rakeem does bring his head phones, it doesn’t mean we won’t hear Gucci. No, not at all. The volume is still high and we can still hear every ratchet line, and “burr” the wack emcee has to say.

However, you get used to Rakeem when you come across a few Patricias who absolutely have to remove their French manicure and proceed to use nail polish remover making the entire train smell as if they’re in a nail salon.

Ironically, all the homeless people I’ve come across are polite and considerate. It’s the folks with jobs who have no home training.

I’m not sure if it’s because I live in a city where rude is the new polite, or if it’s because folks get out of their house and they forget everything their mama taught them, but we New Yorkers are some of the most selfish folks on the planet! We take the term “doin me” to a whole other level.

To bypass the foolery, I try and peruse the train cars as quickly as I can once the train comes in the station. If I see high schoolers, I immediately go at least three or four cars in the opposite direction. High school kids are a bigger threat to our national security than any member of Al Qaeda.

If I see strollers, or infants, I exit stage left.

Babies are cool, don’t get me wrong. Team Gerber. However, babies also lack decorum and if they’re hungry, tired, scared or have just figured out how to successfully blink with their own free will, they’re crying. I can’t deal with that.

I usually try and flex with the 40 to 60 years olds. They’re the ones that are trying to enjoy the few moments of peace before they head into the office and block out the insanity of the day on their way home from the job. They may or may not be tech savvy, so I don’t have to worry about loud head phones, and the most trouble I might get from them are crumbled up Wall Street Journal papers or a half-way finished New York Times crossword puzzle. You can’t be that with a stick!

All I want is to be able to get to and from work in peace. I don’t want to ride the train and feel as if I’m at Weezy concert because your music is too loud. Nor, do I want to have to ignore little Mikey’s bawling cries for his bottle.

Please, New York, I just want to get to where I have to go. Is that really too much to ask?

Close. But Half The Cigar: How One Editor’s “No” Turned Into A “Maybe”

August 29, 2012 in 30 in 30, Awesomeness, Epic!, Gnarley!, I'm Looking For This Place Called Success. with 1 Comment

I’ve said this once before and I’ll say it again: The hardest part about chasing a dream is knowing if you’re headed in the right direction.

Last week, I applied to two internships with two very different, but reputable national magazines. I haven’t heard back from either one, but I’m still hoping for the best.

But lately that’s been the case.

I’ll spend all day gathering my clips from my old paper, going through my blog to copy and paste a link I’m most proud of, I’ll write a cover letter, say a prayer then hit send.

And then I won’t hear a thing. It gets a bit old after a while.

Yesterday, my friend told me about another dope internship with a magazine and urged me to apply.

So I did.

I attached my resume, researched the person receiving all the applications to avoid the common place “To Whom It May Concern” intro, quadruple checked the spelling in my cover letter, made sure to add some links of my work, and hit send.

Moments later she replied.

My heart was racing and I almost dropped my phone trying to get to my email. I’ve never emailed an editor and they get back to me that fast.

“Hey there! One of the requirements is that you’re a current student and that you’re able to receive credit.”

I begged and pleaded with this woman. If she read my email, chances are she read my resume and maybe my cover letter. I wasn’t willing to give up on this just yet.

“I know.” I said. ”However, I just want a chance. I just want an opportunity. I understand its unpaid, and I’m fine with that, but if you give me a chance, I PROMISE! I PROMISE you won’t regret it. I’m just a girl from Queens chasing this dream of being a writer and I know if you give me this chance, I can do well. All I’m asking for is a chance.”

Ironically, potential rejection was the closest I’ve been lately to success! I’m not sure if it was the timing with which I sent my email, the cover letter, me providing my clips or a mixture of all three, but someone got back to me. This is actual proof someone was listening. I couldn’t just let that go.

For the next 30 minutes while I waited for her reply, I explored the possibilities. She could tell me to pick my desperate ass up of the floor and go on about my business, or maybe offer me the internship.

I’ve been writing “professionally” since I was 20 years old. I’ve got seven years in this game, but I’m just now pursuing the kind of writing I want to do, and while I’ve done things, I still feel like I’m down 10.

I say it all the time: All I want to do is write for a magazine I like, and get paid for it! That’s it.

I don’t want to cure cancer or bring peace to the ongoing violence between dairy lovers who have shed blood over the Vanilla vs. Chocolate war. (FYI, Vanilla always wins) I just want to write! And while I’ve surprised myself with my dedication to my own blog, my dedication isn’t paying a bill.

I checked my email. She responded.

“Unfortunately, this is a legal issue for us…we aren’t allowed to have interns that work without getting credit.”

I guess this dream isn’t suppose to become a reality just yet. After a while, you kind of get used to the rejection, which sounds so emo but it’s the truth.

But she didn’t leave me totally out there.

“Please don’t be discouraged! I blogged and freelanced for 5-6 years, it was a struggle but you can find work in this industry! In the meantime, why don’t you pitch us some story ideas?”

Ah ha! I didn’t get my foot in the door. But what I did get was permission to get my foot in the door in the future.

Close, but maybe half a cigar.

Not bad, eh?

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