“If I didn't define myself for myself,
I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.”
When I met Casino, I was fresh out of undergrad and, for all intents and purposes, a new lezzie. I had been with 2 or 3 chicks by the time I met her, but none were girlfriends. So, I was at a point in my life where I was still trying to define who I was and find my place in the world.I would be crunched into other people's fantasies for me and eaten alive.”
I met Casino in grad school. She was working on her second Masters, slightly older, and quite creative. I thought it was providential. I mean what are the odds of meeting another Black lesbian in seminary? On the surface, she seemed cool and liked me for me. That lasted all of two months. I mean she was still cool, but apparently the me she met wasn't the me she wanted.
I am a member of a sorority. Now, I am not on of those chicks whose letters define them. My end all, be all is not the letters across my chest. Most folk don't even know I'm a member. Am I ashamed? No, I'm proud as hell but there is so much more to me than that. Anyway, when we moved in together she made me pack up all my sorority stuff. I couldn't wear my jacket, t-shirts, or hats. I couldn't hang with the sorors. Nothing!
I went with it. I mean I wanted a happy home. I'm from ATL. The home and origin of crunk music. Every once and awhile, I need to feed my inner crunk goddess. She likes to bang it out for an hour or so and then she's good. Oh no! Casino said. I packed up my crunk music right next to my sorority stuff. No problem. There are plenty of genres out there. Right? It's just music, right? Right?
Back then, I was serious about my writing. I was working on a book and doing spoken word whenever I got the chance. I loved performing at cafes and little hole in the wall spots. Of course, I wanted my girl to be a part of it. She went once and that was the last time I performed. She didn't like the artists, the venue, the material. We were out too late. She was tired at church. Ugh, damn! Fuck it. Whenever I wanted to go, it was a fight.
If I couldn't perform, I can just write. I mean I had some books I was working on and doing some freelance stuff. I was good. Or so I thought. I would spend hours writing. Retreat into my own little world and write. Pissed. Her. Off. I was neglecting her. I didn't pay her any attention. Since we really only had one day a week to ourselves, I would end up spending much of it with her. Left little time for my writing.
I'm a coffee drinker and had this one little spot I absolutely loved, black owned and operated! She hates coffee, so enough said.... I like to have drinks with friends. She doesn't drink (actually she tries but can't hold liquor), so yeah.... I love to dance, she has two left feet. So, no more clubs. I was jeans and t-shirts. She wanted me khakis and polos. I could keep going but, dammit, I'm mad at myself. WTF was I thinking? This shit
Makes. No. Sense.
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