hood therapy vol. 3
All my niggas in the whole wide world. Tell them niggas that it's all our turn. This us, some shit is a must. Some shit is for us.
Wow, I am cultivating Volume 3 while Volumes 1 and 2, are reaching groundbreaking numbers. I will be amazed by the engagement for weeks as I continue exploring this creative form of writing.
commented on Volume 2 saying “…the way you meshed these worlds of memory and current explorations together was truly masterful. I certainly entered a portal to the past and was left pondering about these numerous connections.” But it wasn’t just her, commented “We all had to live the same childhood, just in different versions.” reminded me of that dreadful time of the day when my grandma took over the television to turn on Young and the Restless. And how did we all have the same memory of the dormant car in Grandma’s driveway?
You can expect something new each week as I explore the depths of my creativity by capturing nostalgic moments with the organization of my words, imagery, and pieces from the community that triggers that memory. Some weeks will trigger emotions that provoke honesty and vulnerability within ourselves, and some weeks will feel like we are time-traveling through memories locked away. Either way, I am committed to keeping these newsletters available for everyone to enjoy and look forward to each Friday. I no longer desire to stretch myself thin trying to navigate two subscription options, so moving forward all my posts will be available to everyone, and if you wish to support monetarily there are avenues for you to explore. My passion project turned book, UN-TRAP DA HOOD, is available on my website or Amazon.1 Or by treating me to a latte from a cute little coffee shop to hang out and write my next Substack post.
But before we get into this week’s newsletter I have one question for you to answer either in the comments or in a note. What’s your favorite Kool-aid favor? I’ll go first, mine is red. I just made some too, do you want some?
Life is not as serious as the mind makes it out to be. -Eckhart Tolle
life is like a game of spades. ♠️
Spades will forever be the black household classic family night game. As a millennial, writing this piece, I am noting that I need to sit my eight-year-old down soon to pass down Mommy’s skillful techniques and knowledge to continue the unbeatable legend. In my attempt to give her the ideal family game nights I wanted as a kid, I recognized that Sorry and Candyland would not be acceptable credentials for my baby when asked, ‘You know how to play spades?’ We take this question seriously, almost as seriously as when Dada, Craig, and Red heard Debo riding his bike up the street.
You have a variety of style players; your skillful players who typically never lose their seat at the table unless they are giving another team a chance to play, your overconfident player who always overbids, the player with all the possibilities in the world, and your loud yet wrong players who are guaranteed to renege costing them the game and a partner. The game of life is no different, the problem is we treat life just like we treat spades, way too seriously.
I believe if we, black people, learned to look at life as a game and started to play the game of life we would be able to navigate obstacles better. The words from F.U.B.U by Solange have played in my mind on replay while typing this newsletter which let me know this one is for us, and some shit is a must to remain for us. However, when you know you have to play the game just to play the boss, this is what I mean. We can play the game, and be a part of society but understand what player you are in the game. The skillful player of life can navigate through challenges with ease once they recognize the pattern of the game, while some players count all the possibilities that may pass them by, and others play both sides thinking they are winning so they think they gained but lost. Because some shit is meant to stay for us, it’s a must.
swallow fruit seeds or his seed.
The other day my wife and I were outside hiding out by the trash cans smoking like teenagers reminiscing on our fears as a child accidentally swallowing fruit seeds after our daughter texted from inside the house saying she had just accidentally swallowed a cherry seed. We could laugh about our experiences once she confirmed over a quick FaceTime call that she was fine and not freaking out, babygirl is a drama queen. As my wife recalled her imagination creating the narrative that her body would turn into a cherry tree with her hair turning into branches with leaves and cherries growing from them - I started to reflect on my memories of swallowing fruit seeds. My story was much less innocent and I almost immediately realized that sharing it wasn’t funny at all, maybe a little traumatic as I think about it now.
Growing up my cousins always said that if you swallowed a watermelon seed then your stomach would grow a watermelon, innocent right? Sure, but for whatever reason my brain visualized a pregnant belly with a watermelon inside but my mother not believing that it was a watermelon. Although it was just my imagination as a child I could see and feel my mom’s rage infuriated with me that I got pregnant with a watermelon baby before graduating. When I sit back and think about it a lot of my childhood imagination is corrupt by the threats of my mother to keep me ‘in line’. I don’t think she meant it maliciously but I can’t help but wonder if she was treated for mental health issues would my childhood have been different? What if her and my dad’s marriage worked out, would she have loved me more? My love for my mother never changes no matter how my perspective of her shifts, but I don’t believe she was mentally and emotionally mature to be a mother. At times growing up I used to wish she would have just swallowed me with my other 300 million siblings that night I was conceived.
Our relationship feels more like a sister relationship than mother and daughter. I see this in my relationship with my daughter and guilt myself for it. Why can’t you act like a mom, and be happy to be a mom, you aren’t supposed to hate being a mom - I often find myself rehearsing in the mirror after a mommy tantrum because my daughter asked for the thirtieth hug that day and I’m overstimulated. I love my baby girl more than life itself, and not to sound like Eeyore but she’s the reason I am still putting my best foot forward each day. The thought of exiting Earth for good crosses my mind but the reality of who will care for my child snaps me out of the thought. With a deadbeat father sometimes I can’t help but ask myself the same question, would she have been better off just swallowed up too?
This week,
shared this video reading in her post, Sunday Morning Musings of a Mentally Ill Mama from an event where she was selected to be one of ten storytellers. When I tell you the words from Ashleigh’s piece have lived rent-free in my mind, they have moved in and unpacked. As the thoughts began to settle in after unpacked I started to give myself a little grace for those times Tay is just being a normal eight-year-old doing eight-year-old things that at the right time with the wrong mood can cause me to lash out or lose my temper with her.3 I realized how bad it was the moment I got this text message while outside escaping the chaos of my mind each pull bringing my eyelids lower yet taking me higher. When on cloud nine none of my daughter’s mishaps irritate me. I can give her the love and compassion she requires, so when I got this text message I laughed at the fact she thought I would be mad. Until later when I realized if I hadn’t been floating I probably would have lashed out, and then it hit me…
…little me never got the chance to be innocent and childlike because my mom wasn’t often in the mental or emotional capacity to engage in play. She is a smoker too, and smoked throughout her entire pregnancy with me so as I raise my daughter I see the patterns in my mood if I’m freshly baked I’m the fun and playful mom. However, if the weight of the world is on my shoulders at that moment the sun has not kissed my skin and I haven’t escaped to Mars yet, the mom she is presented with is the one I’m most ashamed of. I would have been triggered that when I corrected her spelling of the word cherry she “talked back” to me by saying ‘yeah I used the microphone’ as if she is a teenager from Clueless following up with a ‘whatever’ after every sentence. Instead of being triggered, I’m praying for patience with my daughter so I can have the capacity to show up for her mentally and emotionally. I have to be better for us because she will never read the definition of nothingness and find it relatable.4
32 flavors of this bootylicious bubblegum.
At 33 years old, this part of the song hit a little different now. There are many things I could organize to fit into ‘32 flavors of this bootylicious bubblegum’ that would go crazy, but for this piece I need you to chew on this thought.
shared her honesty and vulnerability this week in a note about people unsubscribing after publishing her last piece, Equilibrium, I’ve been stuck with the juicy details of Katie’s piece. I’d hate to be the one to pop your bubble when it comes to your parents, but I am curious, did you have parents that put thought into you?5 Mine sure as hell didn’t, and I realized while reading Katie’s piece that is where some of my disappointment in my mom is rooted.
Her entire life once she found out she was pregnant with me was strictly based on what she thought she should do. She forced my father to marry her, who already had three children with me making his fourth so she wouldn’t have a baby out of wedlock. Only to divorce him leaving me to grow up witnessing her get married and divorced four times with some physical abuse trauma sprinkled in throughout my childhood. She put me in cheerleading but only because my best friend’s mom was the coach so my mom didn’t have to attend practices or be burdened by the responsibilities of taking me. When I was young she put me in paint classes, but it was watercolor classes that her coworker’s daughter was teaching, and gave my mom a discount because I liked to draw…not the same I used to hate those classes.
My mom did tangible things for me that she could later use as receipts throughout my life to support her argument of ‘being there’. She was there but never present. There was no plan for my future, in her eyes she was only responsible for getting me to eighteen and graduate from high school with no babies so I could go to college. Once I turned eighteen and graduated, the plan and agreement was for me to get out of her house. That’s all I heard growing up, ‘when you turn eighteen I don’t care where you go but you can’t stay here.’
What she failed to mention was I couldn’t dare follow my dreams either, not after she had to let hers go because she got pregnant with me. I couldn’t move away to California (yes, California has been my dream since I was in high school) to figure out life as I wanted to, no I had to go to college, but not college out of the state because it would cost too much. Within the state of North Carolina, I couldn’t go to any college either it had to be affordable and within my FAFSA guidelines. I ended up at NC A&T which isn’t the worst thing in the world I loved my college experience, but it was in the same city I grew up in.
I’ll never forget my freshman year coming ‘home’ with all my stuff packed away in the college starter pack bins, and being met at the door with an ‘oh hell nah’. My anxiety (which I didn’t know was anxiety) was already running high because I just knew she wasn’t going to be happy to see me. She knew I was coming home for the winter break, but I don’t think she understood I had to bring all my stuff. My room had already been occupied with her impulse purchases, the workout machines she ordered off QVC hidden under mounts of clothes. Within three days of being in her house, she loaded me back up to use my refund check to pay my rent on my first apartment at 19 years old. I never got to move back on campus, and although my apartment was within walking distance to my school I was too occupied with the freedom I didn’t need to have.
Watching this Crime Mob video put me back in those days of college, and experiencing too much freedom. How fast I had to grow up getting pregnant and being so afraid of my mom’s reaction that an abortion seemed like my only option. I wonder what my life would look like now if I’d kept that baby, was it a boy or a girl? Perhaps I shouldn’t have been rocking my hips in the club every night. Letting my 32 flavors of bootylicious bubble gum be sampled by anyone who expressed interest in me. I think about that version of myself and how I completely locked her away because she was so broken and has been an embarrassment for so long. The tears flow down my face as I realize that part of me is still broken, and until now I’ve never visited her to say, ‘Hey it’s okay baby girl you didn’t know but we can grow, and heal together now.’ I left her to deal with the abandonment of my mother, and then abandoned my own…first child. I want to go love on my daughter now because I kept her even with my mom not speaking to me throughout my pregnancy just because she didn’t like the way I told her. Between 2009 and 2016 were some of the most difficult times for me and I had no one at my side. No parent holding my hand to teach me the game as they did when I was younger wanting to learn to play spades. But my daughter’s future is thought about and I will continue busting my ass until she has the starter pack to life that she deserves. She will not be forced to go to college or pushed out of the house at eighteen.
Dear Mommy,
a letter to my mother from the perspective of my younger self to now.
I’m sorry to embarrass you online, I promise I’m not that popular. It’s not intentional I want to speak my truth finally and I feel safe talking about it here. I didn’t know I felt some of the emotions that came up until I finished this piece, it felt incomplete. After finding pictures of myself from when I was at your house and how I looked once moving into Ma-Ma’s I knew I needed to write you a letter. Maybe one day you will see it, but it’s not for you this is my chance to say what I couldn’t before. Once you purchased that copy of my book I revised some of the stories to protect you and your big ego. Not here, I won’t sugarcoat because this is my safe space to explore my emotions and thoughts. You can’t control me here. You have to accept me as I am. Between you and Ma-Ma I’ve been trained not to talk about family matters outside the family, but what about when y’all don’t hear me?
I moved back in with you in April 2021, because we both agreed we wanted to mend our relationship and be close. We would be on the phone for hours planning how to spend our time together. Remember the plan was for me not to leave ‘home’ and we would travel and move abroad together? Instead, months later I was backed into a corner in the room while you yelled and belittled me in front of my child. I asked you to stop, you turned up more. You forced me to move in with Ma-Ma, I didn’t want to put her in between us again but I was headed to the shelter I was done with you. I’ve given up on trying to make our relationship work, Mommy I love you so much but you are like a toxic partner. We are not good together because I have to dim and sacrifice so much of myself for you to be able to tolerate me. I can see it in your face every time I speak - I make you sick to your stomach.
And you told me that, remember when you backed me in the corner in the kitchen right before Christmas last year? After you told me and my wife that you didn’t support our relationship, and how uncomfortable we made you in your own house. Remember integrating us about our plan to make sure we would be out of your home by the date we said? That’s probably why here at her Dad’s house I am on edge stressing for us to get out I’m traumatized from that day. I don’t think it’s normal for little girls to be hated by their mothers, I mean I don’t hate mine. Nothing I’ve done has ever been good enough for you, never enough to win over your love completely.
I miss you so much. I have wanted to call you many times since I left. I cried that entire drive to the beach that night because I knew in my spirit I would not see you before I found my new home. I knew that home would no longer have the same meaning. I knew home would never be you again, and that’s breaking my heart. I am grieving the loss of you but you are still alive and breathing. You should be just a phone call away but instead, it feels like we are on different planets.
I want to book you and Ma-Ma a flight out here and put y’all in an Airbnb for a week. Take you to dinner and give you a rental car to explore and do grandparent things. However, I need to take some time for me first. Becoming the woman I’m meant to be so when I am in your presence I don’t shrink into your little Candace (my middle name that my family called me instead of my first name) like you’ve trained me to. I don’t think you meant to do it, but I see how you did it cause I tried to do it to Tay without knowing. She called me out, and now I am aware of my habit of shrinking to keep others comfortable.
I pray that my move across the country and pulling the umbilical cord was the worst thing I had to do to break free from your hold. I want my mother’s love that is supposed to be unconditional, and I understand it will take time for you to learn how to love without conditions. I pray you open your heart and mind to who I am and the woman I’m growing into. I pray you understand that I will forever evolve and never be the same as how you last encountered me because this is my journey. I won’t force my experiences on you but don’t question or judge me for them.
I love you and I always will. And I pray you understand I had to leave the nest to grow my wings. I’m meant to fly to new heights, not be distracted by the rat race. I did this for me and my family because we deserve to live the life we dreamed of, and I wouldn’t trade baby girl’s smile throughout this journey for nothing! Did you ever feel like that about me? Just curious.
Love,
Your only child - Candace
Moment of Transparency: I did not write my book to get rich, this was a true passion project for me just like these newsletters. I want my people to understand that we can break free from this rat race because we have wings, the rat race was never designed for us. Before I knew what the book would be about I had the divine instruction to offer the book on my website. However, I knew I didn’t want to store inventory again. The instruction was to sell 100 exclusive author-signed copies on my website and allow the rest of the sales to generate royalties from Amazon. Through my website, after taxes, shipping fees, print cost with shipping, and standard processing fees I make $17.64 per book. Amazon offers a physical copy of the book and a Kindle edition that I make 60% royalties monthly after print cost a physical book is $3.62 per book and the Kindle is around $5 (I haven’t made a Kindle sale yet). My book allowed me to find my voice and speak my truth. The intention is for, UN-TRAP DA HOOD, to be a toolbook for us, black folk. I did not write for the white reader because I cannot relate to them I wasn’t raised that way, only my people to set us free. My experiences serve as missionary work, call me the new age Harriet Tubman.
In
’s piece, What to Do on Segregation? there was one part that really hit home for me and it started like ‘We won’t be a free society as long as Black/Brown children get hand-me-down, used books from Whyte schools. We won’t be a free society as long as Black/Brown children are expected to fail rather than succeed…’. It got me thinking about how we will never be a free society as long as Black children are taught to leave the door open for them so no one will feel excluded. Not mine, my child will know the importance of helping your fellow black classmate first…always so some shit can stay for us.In
’s piece, Sunday morning musings of a mentally ill Mama, in the beginning, she expresses how depending on her mood and her toddler’s behavior at times she may lash out, and I couldn’t have felt more seen. Recently, since living in the single-room prison we have called ‘home’ since April I have noticed what causes me to lash out when my daughter is doing normal eight-year-old things. I am becoming more aware of my triggers and what causes me to become a ticking time bomb, one is that afternoon sweet spot of me crashing out and being overstimulated. I want to get my shit together so bad and I know once we are settled I will be much better, but an eight-year-old doesn’t deserve to be told no to a hug just because I can’t be mature enough to find a way to regulate my nervous system if I recognize the pattern.Backstory: My daughter saw the word Nothingness on Roblox and asked me if it was a real word. Naturally, I did a quick Google search before giving her the wrong information and we discovered it’s a word. As I read the definition to her, she surprised me when I looked up and she was fighting her tears. I was immediately concerned and asked her what was wrong and how the definition of that word made her emotional. Her response has been eating at me. She told me that as I read the definition she couldn’t help but feel like I was talking directly to her, and that broke my heart into a million pieces. I am so grateful that since she was able to hold conversations, I have taught her the importance of expressing yourself to others even if and when they don’t offer a chance for you to. So we had a discussion and I was able to learn from her what she was feeling and how I was causing her to feel unworthy of love and affection because of my overstimulated moments of lashing out. We are all good now (thankfully), but the timing was the day after she heard
’s essay and discovered that sometimes Moms don’t enjoy being moms but it doesn’t mean we don’t love our kids.
Damn Jacquie, I love that you are working through your pain to grow and be better, but it hurts my heart to hear some of the things that occurred in your life. Sending you a big hug from Newark, New Jersey. Keep growing and please keep writing
I look forward to reading these oh my gosh. The watermelon seed was something we were told growing up too😭 all of this is so powerful though. The letter to your mom is raw and I’m glad you didn’t shy away from saying what you needed to get out. Mother-daughter relationships can be very disheartening to navigate at times, I feel especially in the Black community. I’m glad that you are doing the work that you need to for yourself though. It can be hard to remove ourselves from toxic family members, but at times very necessary.