Author, JUDI JONES', "BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL...and That's The Truth!" Is the latest work published by Debra D. Sawyer's publishing house, DiaShah Press, LLC.
TO ORDER BOOKS, CONTACT: JUDI JONES: SUAVEGIRL@OPTONLINE.NET OR CONTACT: DIASHAHPRESS@YAHOO.COM
I met *Kirk over the internet. I fell in like with his email messages, the ease and way the words flowed. I knew that when I met him, I would like him based on this. When I did, I kissed him on his cheek and re-membered those email messages. When the date was over, we kissed. Nice, soft, tender kisses with a touch of tongue. Over the following week, we talked via the phone, no email this time. The conversa-tion flowed with some minute stagnation, either way, I wanted to hear from him again. We saw each other two times from the first date. When I texted him about meeting me for ice cream five days after that date, he texted back yes. I was so ex-cited, I smiled the rest of the day. I was so wanting to see him that day. So glad to see him. We had ice cream, talked about his kids, perused some photos, then it was over. But not before he revealed some facts about himself, because, “I see us go-ing on together.” He asked will these facts change the way I feel about him. I said no. and meant it. Then the kisses again, nice and soft, longer and meaningful. That Sunday we were supposed to meet again. But, he got sick...with a cold. When he told me he was sick as a dog, I felt so dis-appointed. I immediately went into a brief depression, then not. I had a wedding to go to. So, I had to put on a smile. But, inside I was sick. During the wedding, I texted him, “I wish I were with you.” and meant it. He called me. I didn’t hear the ring with all the music and dancing. He left a mes-sage basically saying I am not going to see you today. But, I took that and went on, believing tomorrow I would see him. To-morrow I would kiss him and hold him and tell him it has only been a week since we first went out. Tomorrow came. I called him, because Deborah asked me to. I wasn’t going to. I didn’t want to be a nudge, a bother. I wanted him to call me. But, I called him. He was excited to hear from me. I loved that. He sounded great. I said, “ You sound great. Did you take any-thing?” No, he said. Doesn’t believe in it. Based on his past, doesn’t want to take any medication. Wants to sweat it out. “When I get a cold, lasts about 10-12 days.” I, in an attempt to make conversation, offered some homeopathic remedies. He seemed interested. Then he got a call on his cell. His supervisor. He would call me back. I eagerly anticipated this. My sister called in the interim, I was slightly pissed it was her. It was not him. But I always talk to my sister. Because I remember the Patti Labelle story about her sisters. About how one of her sisters called her and asked her to bring her something to eat. And Patti wasn’t in the mood to do it. Her sister practically begged her and Patti didn’t do it. And, not too long afterwards, this sister died. Patti said she wished she had done what her sister had asked. From this, I al-ways talk with my sister. The only one I got.
Then he called. This time not from home, but from his cell. He said he was on his way out to the Island to see his chil-dren. Long Island. My heart immediately skipped a beat. A small one, but nonethe-less. And he said, “If you’re not doing anything when I am done, we can do something or I’ll just come by to say hi.” I am not doing anything, I stressed. Please call me. I will, he said.
All that day, I managed to get through it. Washing clothes. Watching reruns. Putzing about the house. Imagining tomorrow’s work on my desk. Replaying my day-dreams in my head. Watching a dvd. Then he called. “I have a dilemma,” he said. My heart stopped. More surprises? He ran into an old girlfriend at the beach. With this, he realized that he still has feelings for her, despite her “putting me through some changes, and I don’t want to get into them here.” But, he said, I don’t want to play games with you; I don’t want treat you like a rebound date. “I like you. We have a lot in common.” But, he said he didn’t think he was ready to date again. He thought he was before he ran into this woman whom he hadn’t seen in two months. “You don’t want to see me anymore?” I uttered meekly. He said he needed time to get over these feelings. He said he would write about it, meditate over it; talk to his spon-sor about it, and pray to God about it. “I will call you,” then, to see what your feel-ings are. I said I was so looking forward to seeing you today and unfortunately for me, “I like you.” I will call you, he said. I will call you.
Then, I felt the sun leave, draping me bereft, numb and cold. It was then I fully realized I had known this man for only one week. I didn’t know what to do with this information. I felt like I was kicked in the stomach. Oh, no, here I go again, being left, being not considered, be-ing the other girl, being given the excuse, alone, again. Again. Immediately, I didn’t want to eat, or drink, or listen to Luther, or dream or talk on the phones, or watch tv, a dvd , daydream about nothing. I had to do something. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, because anyone would say this was a good thing. He has children, two of whom aren’t doing well in society, two of whom are lit-tle, taking time from him and allowing their mother to call him at a whim to come get them. Babymamadrama. Then there’s his past. Drugs. Jail. “But that’s not who I am today.” Then there’s this woman, who put him through some changes, so much so that he still has feelings for her and cannot, right now, give any to me. All I could do was walk. And walk. And walk. Three hours. Maybe less, I didn’t count. My legs, the next day, told the story. I had to work it out. Was he for real? Was this a way to say “I don’t want to be with you, Judi?” Now, I had to take all of the emotions I felt for this man and shore them up somewhere. Tie them up. Put them down. Meka said when this happened to her, she had to tell her mind to tell her heart to stop loving this guy. Wednesday, we were sharing ice cream, in the hopes of sharing more of each other. Then today, a mere four days later, I may not see him again.
Once again, I wasn’t so much upset at the guy, but me. Me for making what seems to be a beeline around the track. The track lined with failed romances and not picking up on the cues that this man is a disaster. Daddy would say he is carrying too much baggage. Walking, in between tears and frustration, I kept telling myself, ‘there must be something wrong with me,’ ‘there must be something wrong with me.’ This must be God’s way of saying, “I have something/someone better for you. Just wait.” At least, I hope this. I remember reading an article in Oprah. This woman said she had been in an emotionally turbu-lent relationship for so long, that this is what she was used to in men; that she probably wouldn’t recognize a good man if he pointblankly introduced himself. Is this me?
In the forty-five years that I have been alive, I have not had one meaningful, long-lasting relationship. Always the bridesmaid. Never the bride. Just recently, I was talking with Robyn, telling her about jumping into this dating game. We ended the conversation by me saying, ‘I don’t want to die alone.’ I don’t want to be grandma pet. I loved her, but I don’t want to be her. Mia said I was too picky. Trish said she had a feeling I would be 48 before I found him. Forty-eight??? Shit.
Some girls always hear “I want to be with you;” “I’ll be right over to cook you din-ner, and we can plan the wedding;” “This ring is for you;” “You’re my girl;” “I’ll be right back.” But judi always hears, “I like you, but;” “You’re very smart, you’re very pretty, judi, but.” “I ike you, judi, but, I have a dilemma.” But. But. But. But. But.
I am so damn tired of having to lis-ten to this and having to go on; having to keep my chin up; having to say to myself ‘I am a good person and I deserve good people;’ having to smile, when I don’t want to breathe; having to be all to myself, to make myself full; having to let it roll off my back when all I want to do is SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAM.
“Judi, you will find him; he’s out there.” Where??? “Judi, you are a good person.” I ain’t always good. “Judi, you’ve done nothing wrong.” Really? Well, since January of this year, I have dated six guys. Two were emotionally troubled; two I didn’t like at all; one just stopped calling and then Kirk. And before January, I barely dated at all. If I did, I don’t remem-ber. All I do recall is nursing books, crying, not sleeping, clinicals, med errors, and trying to find a job. The last relation-ship lasted a year and a half. That ended when the guy decided he wanted to be with someone else. After awhile, one has to ask herself, ‘what do I do to attract such horror stories?’ It must be me. I am so tired of feeling like the kid with the red ball stand-ing alone in the middle of the big green field waiting to be asked to play.
This ain’t no pity party. That’s for damn sure. Been there. I am so sick of that. It’s another chance to get it right. To get me righter and fuller and completer; to be more ready for him. At least, I hope this.
I am not alone in this plight. This longing for white flowers for no reason; for a phone call in the middle of the day asking about mine; for a warm, smooth male body placed upon my back; for the chance to place my lips at the crook of his neck and breathe, waiting for morning to cast new light on this great adventure.
After I walked, I came home. Laid down in the dark, pondered the conversa-tion. My life. After awhile, got up, took a shower, laid back down in the dark. It was friendly. It asked no questions. It let me breathe. It let me realize that I won’t be waiting around for Kirk to make his deci-sion. That’s for damn sure. There are millions of people who have lost their will to live, who have no food, no housing, no money, no family, no legs, no eyes, no control over their bodies, no mind, no self respect.
I thank God, that I ain’t one of them.
*Not his real name
Excerpt
DiaShah Press LLC releases BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL...and That's The Truth, By Ms. Judi Jones, from the Publishing House of DiaShah Press
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