Candid Camera
I’ve never exactly been a ham; and more than that, I’ve never been super excited to take pictures. I was much more chill about it when I was younger; but then my mother died (twenty years ago this year) puberty hit, and I wasn’t really about that life. One of the draws of wanting to be an author was I could be renowned without being famous…cut to the new millennium, and big-time authors are celebrities in their own right-which means I have to be amenable to being a more public figure than I’d anticipated. This caused me endless anxiety, because in trying to become the author of note that I’d want to be, I had to contend with my low self-esteem, high self-doubt, and toxic eddies of negativity. I hid it well enough, sort of; meaning, I could function and cope when necessary, but I’d formed many maladaptive mechanisms to help me through this process. Chief of this was dulling my shine and letting other people dictate the parameters of my relationships and how I should view myself. I’d been emotionally abused, physically molested, and spiritually challenged, and for the past two years I’ve been trying to untangle and undo all of that to get myself right.
By pure providence, Conflict Fetish has been on this journey with me, and I quite honestly can’t remember how that decision was made that we would be. Our association began because we were on a writing forum together and we fangirled over each other’s works. For some reason, though, the transition from association to friendship happened, and for a long time I was second-guessing why someone as awesome as her would deign to spend her time engaging with me. And admittedly, there were times when she stopped-sometimes out of the blue and sometimes with full disclosure. But around 2010, about a year after I’d moved from Boston back to SC, I’d decided I was giving up low self-esteem for Lent. Up until then, our friendship had reverted back to association status, which I was, in many ways, more than cool with because I was used to associations (even as I desired and yearned for true relationships). I told her what I’d “given up” for Lent, and she became one of my biggest cheerleaders. But I stumbled out the gate with that, and the friendship we were slowly starting to reform dropped off again. I felt lost and floundering after that, because she was one of the few people in my life at the time with whom I felt safe enough to be vulnerable, because for so long I had to be that “strong black woman that didn’t need anyone but had to be there for everyone”. And honestly, I felt guilty and lacking for leaning to heavily on her and had an of course she left mantra running through my head when she finally did.
I don’t even remember how/why we reconnected again, but we did, and I was in a better place, but I still had a lot of work to do. I’d finally accepted I was awesome; what I hadn’t accepted was people genuinely could and did agree with my self-assessment. And I couldn’t exactly trust the assurances of my friends because I’d convinced myself they were just saying that to be nice, or they were “supposed” to say that…except, not even my own family said that to me. Any accomplishment I had was something I was “supposed to do”, so any of the joy or elation I could’ve felt about it got stolen. It’d gotten to the point I didn’t share anything with anyone-good or bad-unless I was backed into a corner to do so. Or when I did volunteer something, it was in a very blasé fashion. My friends would always say they didn’t generally know how I felt about something; which was purposeful, now that I think about it, because then “they” couldn’t steal that feeling from me-whether positive or negative. But now, even a few years removed after that revelation, I’m going to be completely honest and say I wasn’t ready for the responsibility of people knowing my awesomeness, because it felt overwhelming. And even as I say it, it sounds arrogant as hell, but it’s not arrogance. It’s a surety to know you’re amazing in a world where all you’re constantly fed is “you aren’t” despite empirical and factual evidence to the contrary. This is why representation is so damn important and why I’m constantly talking about it when I blog. That I didn’t have macro examples of people who looked like me reflected back at me gave me a sense of instability; and being among one of the most vulnerable demographics in this country. Just recently, Conflict said I had a tendency to take in everything said to me, whether I should or not. One of the things I took in at an early age was a piece of advice from my uncle-a black man who was raised in segregated Georgia and South Carolina who ended up in the military because there were few other opportunities for better a black man’s lot during that time. This piece of advice was “never let on how smart you are”. Like, I’m getting teary just thinking about that advice because he told it to me to keep me safe. Being “smart”; and not only being smart, not being ashamed of that intelligence, really could’ve gotten people of color killed-they still could. So for him to tell me that, someone I loved and trusted, I remember nodding and doing just that. But…I couldn’t completely do that, not with my other uncle pushing Ivy League schools down my throat because from preschool to fifth grade I went to an all-black school and you bet your bippy you weren’t going to slack off there, which meant I’d tested well enough for those schools to be potential options. The competition was fierce and it was among the best schools I’d ever attended. Excellence was the only option, and they weren’t filling our minds with the toxic “you can’t” that I think many schools of color unfortunately are mired in because of a myriad of reasons. But that piece of advice was doled out once I entered the “integrated” schools and my classes became “integrated” solely because of me for many of them. I fell into that “be there but be invisible” mode; keep your head down, stay on your grind, but don’t bring any further attention to yourself. The dulling of my shine became a survival tactic; because those moments when I was singled out for being amazing (I remember freshman year my English teacher read my essay on The Lord of the Flies out loud for the rest of the class, and I tried to sink further in my desk because of it), I was suddenly in the spotlight, and suddenly a target.
So, I was a brilliant black girl who had boobs, belly, and booty, which meant I had a bull’s-eye on my back from various demographics in the school. I took my lunches in classrooms, many times alone because the two friends I’d had were often on differing schedules. I got close to teachers, to the point they’d gossip in front of me or let me roam the halls without my ID or trotted out for their “diversity” publicity. It was a cross I had to bear, and it was funny how words like “Harvard” and “Ivy League” could be made to sound like curses and nasty things when associated with me. But I got in, was the first ever from my high school to get into any Ivy League school (and my sis was the second to get into Harvard). The district superintendent put me on blast about that and I’d hated it, ashamed. Think about that-ashamed about something that should’ve been a celebrated accomplishment for me.
But high school is all about the yearbook, and yearbooks are all about pictures. Outside of the school organizations I was in and the official school picture, I’m incredibly absent from them. And when I am in the pictures, I’m smiling a performative smile, the kind that doesn’t really reach my eyes, a smile of endurance instead of enjoyment.
This trend only got worse in college, because everyone is amazing in college and I couldn’t understand how I got in anyway. I’d joke and say they needed normal people; but then one dude asked me where I’d applied (he was a love at first sight dude, too, for me and my sis, bless us) and I told him-Stanford, Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Columbia, and Duke (my “safety” school), and I’d gotten into all of them. He reeled back and said “wow”, and I fell in love with him a little more and proceeded to convince myself I was reading way too much into the situation and there’s no possible way he could’ve been attracted to me because nobody had been in high school (which, in hindsight, is a lie; I’d caught the interest of a senior when I was a freshman). But the real thing is, I’d already caught unwanted attention by an older gentleman who’d worked at our house, and he’d molested me the summer before I’d entered college. He’d touched me inappropriately twice-once on my butt and once to jiggle my braless chest. I’d avoided saying anything because I initially wasn’t even sure if that could be counted as molestation because no clothes had come off, he hadn’t “hurt” me, and it’d happened quickly. Not only that, I’d thought I’d get in trouble for him touching me because I’d been walking around the house with no bra on, or the guy would accuse me of lying and no one would believe me. But somehow, I’d ended up telling my aunt (while at Disney World of all places) and she was pissed all right, but not at me. Of course, the guy said I was lying but he was fired anyway; and his sister (who was my grandmother’s caretaker) stayed on a little bit longer but eventually left as well. I felt guilty about that; but I wasn’t equipped to process that and understand that wasn’t my guilt to bear…but that experience left me hella wary around dudes, suspect about their intentions, fearful about throwing something out there unintentionally and have a repeated and exacerbated incident from that first one.
So, I dulled my shine and dressed dumpily and made sure I kept myself in the friend-zone even when there were dudes who I’m sure would’ve been ready to go had I allowed it. That ended up with me in a toxic friendship where someone was basically sucking all of my energy out because she had issues too, but would be quick to flip on me and call me the worst person to ever person; and so when Conflict would disengage with me, I didn’t blame her or fault her. If I were making her feel even a tenth of what that girl made me feel, I’m glad she could do, with ease, what I had to be convinced to do from my friends. But if I’d let that friendship go, I was afraid I’d have no friends for the rest of my time at college.
Truthfully, I didn’t, not really. I retreated even further into myself and hid in my writing. I wrote Reconstructing Jada Channing and Being Plumville then. Had it not been for my choir, I probably would’ve been a complete hermit; however, even that choir was a source of angst for me. Up until college, I didn’t sing; I’d focused on orchestra and the viola, but I’d always sung. The choir accepted everyone; but there were two subgroups for which you had to audition. I auditioned, not thinking I’d get in; but not only did I get accepted, I was the only freshman to be so. I felt completely out of my element and shocked I’d been accepted; but with all these other ladies in the group being phenomenal and amazing, I was further confused why I was in the group. We went on tour and I was going to get my first solo; during a one-on-one session with me that wasn’t going so wonderfully, the leader of the group stopped me and frowned, eyed me, and said “you don’t open your mouth when you sing.” Obviously, I looked at her as if she were crazy, because obviously you can’t sing if you don’t open your mouth…which was her entire point. I was terrified of my voice, of “sounding like I was dying” as my uncle had teased me (same uncle who told me to dull my shine). It went back to Conflict’s point about me taking in everything to my heart, especially from people I trust. And that comment by the leader made me realize not only did I not open my mouth to sing, I didn’t open my mouth, period, unless my back was up against the wall-which then is an explosion of pain and hurt obfuscating the point I’m trying to make underneath it all. My sister would always tell me to just say something, but I wasn’t prepared to deal with the consequences of my feelings; and, perhaps more importantly, didn’t think it would matter one way or another…because it hadn’t ever before. But writing, I could do. Writing gave me the distance to process things with minimized risk. Writing meant I could package my thoughts and feelings neatly and deliberately and remove the intimacy involved with speaking. I was a good writer; but I wasn’t a great communicator. And the one time I basically put myself out there-on the eve of the choir elections-I subsequently lost the elections. But by that point, though, I was already checking out and withdrawing (I had a thesis to write, conveniently; I was a senior, conveniently; my voice wouldn’t be missed, or so I thought).
I graduated college, thank the good Lord, got a job as a proofreader, and basically went to work at 6 in the morning and then went home at 2 in the afternoon. That’s pretty much almost all I did for three years; but then I got benefits on my job, and I decided to go to a therapist, because I hated the path I was traveling. It was to the point I couldn’t even be excited when I’d released my first novel. In fact, it’d taken a whole week to open the shipping box to even look at it, and then a few more weeks to read it without nitpicking at why it was the most awful book on the planet.
Fate would have it this would be the same woman who’d been my therapist during college, right after I got out of that toxic friendship. I still couldn’t be completely honest with her; and she even got on me about talking about other people instead of myself. I’d dulled my shine so effectively I’d numbed myself to my own feelings, so much so I felt overwhelmed even just skimming the surface of them. I’d been afraid if I went “there”, I’d cry so much we’d need canoes to leave the office. But I appreciated the sessions because I do think some headway was made. I had someone to talk to, someone who I could be a little vulnerable with, but that potential vulnerability overwhelmed and scared me. She’d diagnosed me with social anxiety disorder, and admittedly, my relief over it not being depression trumped my desire to completely understand what that meant.
But I still wasn’t where I wanted to be; too afraid of it, feeling too undeserving of it-of the awesomeness I felt thrumming inside of me. It was endless frustration, holding myself back when the Self wanted to propel forward, denying myself-no, refusing-my joy and my happiness because so many people in my family have been miserable and it felt like a slap in the face to them, for their sacrifice so me and my sister could have better opportunity (just last week my friend told me she’d never met anyone so determined in her refusal to be happy; I had to pause for the cause when she said that). I took on way too much responsibility for other people’s inability to be great, and yeah, a lot of that guilt stemmed from the fact our mother had died when we were very young and thrust us in the care of a young man just on the cusp of finding his greatness. And not only that, my dad asked if we wanted to live with him and I said no, because even at nine I knew he was supremely ill-prepared to raise two daughters, especially two daughters he’d had to further uproot to move up North and away from damn near everyone they already knew. It wasn’t fair. I’d already lost too much…only so much more trauma I could take.
I cringe when I look at pictures of me during those years. Rarely was I carefree in them; rarely did I think I was anything worth immortalizing in a photo. For a long time, the only pictures of me on Facebook were the pictures other people had taken of me. The only pictures I’d put up were of my book covers…if that. I didn’t have a lot of photos; I wasn’t tagged in much, and it was as if I was erasing myself from not only other people’s lives, but my own as well. In fact, the last time I’d felt genuinely pretty was for my cotillion when I was 17; nobody told me I was pretty then. That lack of reinforcement had convinced me I was “seeing things” that weren’t there, overestimating my attractiveness. Of course, having this happen right before I was thrust into the dog-eat-dog world of college certainly didn’t help my self-esteem in that regard, either. And those pictures of me at the cotillion? Well, one, I’d done it for everyone else, because they’d started using the “mama card” on me; but the organizer really pissed me off when she had the nerve to say the cotillion was the second most important day after your wedding. Y’all, the side-eye I had for the rest of this cotillion. That probably affected my willingness to pose in pictures, because my face would’ve clearly said I wasn’t here for that.
And that’s the crux of everything, I think; pictures revealed much more than I was willing to expose, and I didn’t want my secret of being supremely unhappy to get out, because then people would ask me what was wrong, or then they’d say “why don’t you just…?” despite nothing about how I was feeling and operating was that simple. It’s been a long, hard, arduous, heartbreaking process from me-one that takes much more fortitude and courage than I’d even anticipated. Trying to fix your shit means you run the risk of losing people and relationships that you hadn’t fathomed losing even if they weren’t the best for you; and because you’re that vulnerable, you wonder if losing those relationships mean you’ll be forever alone. It means putting your trust in a relationship, in a person, and calling in their chips-do you love me for me, or the person I allowed myself to be around you? When you’ve been threatened to be kicked out of the family for not toeing the line, that’s a scary proposition, especially when you’ve been operating under the assumption you aren’t worth very much unless you do what people want you to do. Boundaries have to be reestablished and actually enforced. Because I’d been coping, the only boundary I could flex with any measure of success were pictures of me, but that wasn’t remotely satisfying, and I realized how sad that was in 2010 - 2011 when I went to various reunions, but especially my ten-year high school one, which was a year after my five-year college reunion (and a year after I started my Sav Is Awesome campaign).
First of all, I didn’t think anyone but my two friends would remember me, especially since it was mostly black people who attended (apparently the white folks had theirs at a restaurant the night before) and most of my classes were mostly white. But it was a surprisingly good experience; and not only that, the photographer took a fair amount of candids of me and I was a good sport and didn’t shy away. Granted, I pretended I didn’t notice him, too, but I thought that was progress from my usual MO (although I don't have any personal pictures from that night, whomp). A month after that, was the first time I met Conflict in person, too, and she was a picture person (something I hadn’t realized she would be). She was with me while I took my professional author pictures, and she even let me borrow a dress when we went out. It wasn’t the world’s most revealing dress at all, but it molded to my shape, and I was unsure about if I looked all right. She took pictures of me; and even though I was smiling and genuinely happy and excited to be there, my anxiety about my outfit could definitely be seen in my eyes.
I felt out of my element during this photo shoot in Atlanta. I felt exposed, despite me being made up; it probably didn’t help the pictures were done in public places, and I felt on display. I’m recognizing now that was my social anxiety kicking in, a diagnosis I’d pretty much shoved in the back of my mind, but I was too busy waiting for someone to laugh at my attempt at being pretty even though Conflict and the photographer were there to tell me I actually was. But again, only a year into my “Sav Is Awesome” project, I had basically eighteen years of toxic thinking to purge. Luckily, I did relax enough during some shots to take some really cute pictures of me, in that they were more genuine than not; and all of them were saved because the photographer really is that amazing.
Fast forward to this weekend, when it’s been a year since that first Atlanta trip, and it’s for Dragon*Con-something neither of us have been to, something I didn’t exactly think would interest me, and knowing Conflict would have a guest of the male variety with her. Luckily, I’d already met with Conflict when she had a romantic partner with her, and my anxiety of being a third wheel had decreased once we were there. Then, I'd had other anxiety issues to deal with-chief being unable to eat-but I was relaxed enough to pose for pictures then. I'd also still been a little uncomfortable, though, because of the outfit (the white dress above) I’d chosen to wear that highlighted my curves more than I was used to. Conflict and a mutual friend of ours were all about this dress, though; and eventually, I’d relaxed enough to let it ride and have a good time. I bring up that dress because my costume for Dragon*Con was an American!police officer to Conflict’s British!Alisha outfit from Misfits. Our story was Alisha (and Rudy, who Cache would’ve played had not Portland mucked everything up) had come to Vegas to get Nathan, but I’d arrested them instead. This is notable because the “dress” didn’t go all the over my donk, and I’d had to get leggings to make me a mite more decent than I would’ve been. The outfit was tight and unforgiving, topped off with heeled boots in which I’m not used to walking. Basically, everything about this outfit was out of my comfort zone, but I was the only who even suggested wearing it and I’m the only who put together the outfit to wear - all of this a mere four months after the previous white dress angst.
So…the men all paused…and some of the women too. But more surprisingly, they were pausing for me. One dude in his fancy white Corvette made a turn and then kept looking back at us as he drove; so, since I was a cop, I’d shouted at him to keep it moving. Conflict’s over there trying not to die from laughter and I’m surprised I even engaged with homie like that, because last year on the streets of Atlanta, looking far more conservative and “appropriate”, I was actively hoping people didn’t notice me and the friend and the photographer taking pictures. This time, I knew, just by the nature of wearing the outfit, I was going to draw some attention; I just let it ride. Initially I was self-conscious, because the dress was riding up more than I’d anticipated, but even then I let it go. And the funny thing-the first person to mention anything about our outfits was two white women who were all about them, and then even singled me out (disclosure, by that time I’d pulled down the zipper of my dress a bit because it was too damn hot and the polyester wasn’t cute in terms of keeping me cool; so I’d gotten so relaxed I let a little cleave show-this would’ve never happened last year). We all got into the elevator and there was this, Conflict’s words, “silver fox” on there. There were questions about Dragon*Con and someone made another comment about my outfit. I’d joked and said I left my Glock upstairs and there were chuckles. Silver Fox murmurs something about that being a relief. Then we reach his floor, and he says “Excuse me, Officer”, because I was standing in front of him. But…um…the tone in his voice wasn’t remotely PG-and though it wasn’t PG, I didn’t feel threatened, either; I felt appreciated and admired, and my eyebrows went up even as Conflict tried very hard not to do a jig over that. She teased me almost endlessly about that when we got to the room, though.
Honestly, though, I don’t think that experience could’ve happened had not the one the previous night happened. Part of the deal with Conflict’s partner was he was going to give us both pedicures, so I’d been sort of prepared for that even as I had a little bit of anxiousness. A man had never touched my feet before, and the typical “will this be weird?” thing filled me a bit because part of me was scared to let myself enjoy the pampering. I’m rarely pampered, and then part of me was thinking this wouldn’t have happened without Conflict’s insistence, but I let it go because the bigger part of me had been looking very forward to it, and I should just seize the opportunity. That also probably helped relax me, too. Dude’s already touched my feet and didn’t recoil from horror, so I think we’re good. We also bonded over football; and while I find Cache’s teams a little suspect, none of them are on my “Absolutely Not” list so we can still be friends…:P. Conflict was groaning and wary when she came out of the shower and we were laughing, but I can admit I was glad that the conversation with Cache had less to do with her and more to do with us, if that makes sense. Further, Conflict had said Cache liked cookies, and I know she expected me to buy some along with the crackers (that I forgot, whoops) and the cheese she asked me to get for our trip; but I’d made them from scratch. Turns out, I’d made his favorite kind-peanut butter-and when I tell y’all Dude’s face lit up like the lights in Times Square…that made me feel good. So already we’d found a decent level of comfort around each other for a first meeting, and I was chill. My appetite anxiety aside (which I didn’t realize was “a thing” until Conflict pointed it out to me after the weekend was over), we had a good time looking at all the costumes and football people in town for SEC opening weekend (the games were in the Georgia Dome). We then went to a pub and we were just talking, whatever. I pulled a jokey face, and Conflict tells Cache to take a picture of me. I immediately went to my jokey face again, but Conflict told me to smile my real smile (that she even knows I have a real smile and a performative smile and calls me out on it says a lot about our friendship).
I have to say, I think Cache took my most favorite picture of me ever.
Yes, I was wearing makeup done flawlessly by Conflict, but it more of an enhancement than a cover up, but she couldn’t make up my smile, and I just looked pretty. My eyebrows went up because I hadn’t expected that image to be reflected back at me, not after all the misses I’ve had with photos of me; but this dude I’d just met managed to take the absolute best photo of me ever on a damn camera phone. I would like to say I returned the favor when I took a picture of them with his phone. They both looked very happy. :)
Dude then gives me a foot massage and I had to remind myself I couldn’t keep him. I hadn’t expected to get one, quite honestly; but he’d asked, and instead of saying no like I usually would, I trusted he wasn’t just asking to be “nice” and genuinely wanted to give me one; and I sucked up my “Independent Black Woman” shtick and allowed myself the pampering. Dude’s hands are rude as hell; I think my feet tingled at least an hour after that massage; and I glared at Conflict for letting me experience those hands and not being able to have them on call like that. LOL! But I was proud of myself for letting myself experience that, especially when Conflict has told me I had a very real problem in letting people take care of me.
It was clear a corner had been turned between the first Atlanta trip Conflict and I had and this one. I relied on being my true self more than the performative self, and I was met with far more success in terms of how I wanted the weekend to go. Obviously, I wasn’t perfect, because I felt myself slipping into habits, but I checked myself and didn’t recoil from being checked when it happened. There were other revelations made during the weekend, but the chief thing is the pictures of me from this weekend were among the first ones to truly capture me in all facets of how I was feeling at the time. I have to admit, I hadn’t planned on writing over 5K words about pictures, but this is also no small matter, so congrats to you if you read all of it! And while Conflict features heavily in this, she’s not the only friend who helped me get to this point. She’s the friend, along with Skyward who is no longer with us, who’s been more instrumental to me on this journey than I think I’ll ever really be able to convey.
This the most revealing I've ever been in any capacity, and this was really and genuinely just supposed to be a simple recap of the Dragon*Con weekend; but too many things had been happening the weeks - days - before it, and all of that fed into how the weekend shook out. It's very tl;dr for people probably, but I needed to get all of that out for me. I'll probably blog about the happenings that occured as a precursor to the weekend, but this needed to get out first.
Oh, and have a probably the best cosplay I saw all weekend:
