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QUEEN SUGAR: The Reality Unfolds, The Beauty Begins


Picture this:

Tuesday night. Dinner was done, the kitchen was clean. Hubby was on “Get baby ready for bed” duty, and I had hopped in the shower and back out just in time. With 10 minutes to spare until 10pm, I was more than ready to finally watch the heavily promoted premiere of Queen Sugar (the Ava DuVernay-helmed series on OWN). After soaking up all the press over the past few months about the show, I couldn’t wait to drink it all in – but I quickly learned my thirst wasn’t going to be satisfied. OWN Canada, for some nonsensical reason, isn’t airing Queen Sugar. So while I watched my entire Twitter timeline blow up over the wonders of the show, I was left stewing (and cussing) on my couch with an old episode of Criminal Minds staring back at me. Canadian television programming fail.

But where there’s a will, there’s a way. I finally tuned into the first two episodes of Queen Sugar, and I am hooked. Based on the book by Natalie Baszile of the same name, the show chronicles the lives of 3 very different siblings who inherit their father’s sugarcane farm while trying to manage the complexities of their own lives. Quite frankly, this show is like nothing I’ve ever seen.

Our three main players are the Bordelon siblings – Nova, the eldest (played by the inimitable Rutina Wesley – I’ve loved her since True Blood), a journalist and spiritualist; Charley, the middle (played skillfully by Gwen-Lyen Gardner), the wife and manager of David West, a top-level NBA star and mother to son Micah; and Ralph Angel, the baby (played powerfully by Kofi Siriboe); 6 months fresh out of prison and a single dad to adorable son Blue, played by Ethan Hutchison. Blue’s mom Darla is a recovering drug addict played by possible vampire Bianca Lawson (like, how has she looked 17 forever?), and the Bordelon patriarch Ernest is played masterfully by Glynn Turman.

Here are some of my favourite notable aspects from the first two episodes:

The opening scene + overall cinematography

The show opens with one of the most sensual scenes I’ve ever watched – Nova arising from the bed she shares with her lover, Calvin (Greg Vaughan). Instead of the usual sexy scene of getting undressed, we watch Calvin help Nova put her clothes on – and I was sitting there like:


This looked phenomenal, but seeing that Calvin is a white, married police detective means that there will undoubtedly be some rockiness in this love boat. The direction and cinematography in this scene give you an introduction to what the rest of the show looks like. The lighting, colours, shades, and languid pacing ensure that you see every bit of everything – the landscapes, the spaces that the characters inhabit, the emotion on their faces, and above all else, the beauty of Blackness. Black people are lit, shot, and framed in such a gorgeous way – Ava DuVernay spoke on this last year during an interview with Q-Tip:

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Skin tones of all kinds are luminous on the Queen Sugar screen, and I’m so thankful for that.

The expressions of masculinity

After Daddy Bordelon suffers a heart attack and ends up in the hospital, Ralph Angel reluctantly brings Blue to see his Pop-Pop – grandfather and grandson share an incredibly special bond. You see how Ralph Angel tries to shield his son from certain realities, how he’s both tender and tough with Blue, and how some of those same traits exist in the relationship between Ernest and Ralph Angel as well. We don’t know where Ralph Angel’s mother is or how long she’s been gone – but in one particular scene (that had me BAWLING), we see 3 generations of Bordelon men who are all just doing the best they can with what they have, showing a love and tenderness between Black men that has rarely been displayed in mainstream media.

In episode 2, Ralph Angel’s Aunt Violet (Tina Lifford) chides him for trying to protect Blue from everything: “Baby, coddlin’ him ain’t doin’ him no favours,” she says. “Ernest always regretted all the coddling he did with you, his only son up on a pedestal,” she continues. “You see how it turns out.”

“How’s that?” Asks Blue.

“Wrestling with the world. A world that ain’t got no pedestal for you.”

An interesting piece of the Ralph Angel/Blue relationship is Kenya – the Barbie doll that Blue carries with him almost everywhere. You see how it’s a comfort to the child and how it creates discomfort for the father, who in one moment obliges his son by helping to prop Kenya on the sink while he cuts Blue’s hair, then in the next takes it out of Blue’s backpack on the way to school, promising to keep her safe at home.

Figuring out who Charley is

Charley is an interesting conundrum of a character. Leaving Louisiana for the bright lights of Los Angeles, she obtained an MBA, married a superstar basketball player, and has been living a life of success and riches ever since. When her husband David gets caught up in a sex scandal that unfolds simultaneously with the death of her father, Charley returns to her hometown and the siblings she left behind. You see the external tension, especially between Nova and Charley, who embrace at the end of episode 1, but engage in combat during episode 2. You see the internal tension as the L.A. Charley and the Louisiana Charley battle for space in one body. You learn that Charley has a different mother than her other two siblings, adding even more context to the issues that arise. Charley is undoubtedly going to be on a journey of self-discovery through the season, and it will be interesting to see how it all unfolds.


via Indiewire

The nuances of Blackness

There’s Nova tearing into Charley for hiring servers for their father’s repast: “You ain’t been gone that long – how come you don’t remember how it’s done?” Nova yells. “We don’t honour our father by having strangers serve those grieving. We serve comfort food to those who need comfort and we do it with our own hands!”

There’s the dissonance between the Bordelons and the funeral director when Nova wants to sew a special pouch into the lining of their father’s casket: “We don’t allow that kind of thing, Miss Nova,” says the director. “We run a straight Christian business here.” The juxtaposition between Christianity and diasporic spirituality creates an important moment here.

There’s Ernest Bordelon’s masonic funeral service itself, where the family sits dressed in all white as the patriarch is laid to rest. This Vulture recap references Ernest’s membership in the Prince Hall Affiliated Free and Accepted Mason fraternity, named after Prince Hall, an 18th century Black abolitionist.

Some aspects are familiar to me through disaporic channels, and some are new – but the effort to intertwine varied realities of Black life is both comforting and refreshing.

With an incredible cast and diverse writing and directing teams (Ava DuVernay tapped a lineup of all-women directors for season 1), this show feels like a gift delivered to us from Natalie Baszile, Oprah, Ava DuVernay, and the entire cast and crew. I don’t know about y’all, but I plan to stay tuned and stay sweet – I am 100% here for Queen Sugar.

#MEDIAMAGIC: When Life Brings You Where You’re Meant To Be


All photos in this post courtesy of Lawrence Kerr Photography

The synchronicity of life’s full-circle moments should never be taken lightly.

It’s in the power of those moments – when seemingly random pieces of your life story join together like interlocking puzzle pieces and suddenly illuminate a picture you didn’t realize was there – that you often uncover some key truths about yourself. These epiphanies either confirm a hypothesis that your subconscious was testing out, or reveal the true meaning behind something in your past. For me, both of these things happened on August 21st, when the pictures in this post were taken.

Earlier this month (on the 5th anniversary of my 1st blog post on ’83 To Infinity, no less), I got a call inviting me to participate in a photo shoot being arranged to showcase Black women in Canadian media. Inspired by an earlier impromptu photo of some of Canada’s dopest Black women in the industry, this upcoming shoot (by award-winning photographer Lawrence Kerr) was going to gather as many Black women in media as possible in one spot, and my presence was requested.

Have you ever felt like you belonged somewhere, but in the same breath thought “WTF? I belong here???” Imposter Syndrome set ALL the way in, but I still got myself together that fateful Sunday and headed to the shoot. Surrounded by women I’ve looked up to, women whose work I’ve admired, women who have become friends, and women who I met in person for the first time, it was an afternoon filled with warmth, sisterhood, upliftment, and real #blackgirlmagic.

It goes without saying how important it is to see a number of multi-hued Black women who are all doing work in various areas of journalism and media. For narratives to change and become more authentic, Black women need to be show hosts, journalists, producers, writers, creators, media entrepreneurs, and so much more. Unlike our U.S. sistren, we don’t have access to the same kinds of media outlets – mainstream or otherwise – that serve to celebrate, entertain, and inform. We’re forging our way in the Canadian industry, taking our rightful seats at tables and building tables of our own to do important work that we’re passionate about.

A number of amazing women were there in spirit only (would have loved to thank women like Traci Melchor, Rosey Edeh, and so many others – next time!) but I was so honoured to share space with the women who were able to be present.


Do you see Arisa Cox, host of Big Brother Canada, in white in the centre of the 2nd row? She inspired my first ever solo event, Mirror Images – talking about diversity and representation from the perspectives of Black Canadian women in media. She wrote an incredible article that made me tweet “I wish someone would host an event with Arisa and other Black women talking about their experiences” – then I did it. Arisa – who lived in an entirely different province – made sure to be in attendance and provided mentorship for me and everyone who came.

Check the woman sitting 3rd from the left in the front row. TVO host Nam Kiwanuka is a woman I’ve admired for YEARS, and she was one of the first Black women I saw regularly on Canadian TV. I was so nervous inviting her to be on my Mirror Images panel, and literally did a happy dance when she accepted – and now, we’ve become friends who cheer for each other at every turn.

Reporter/Anchor Nneka Elliot (3rd from the right in the first row) used to hold events called The Media Huddle where I really started to get my feet wet in learning about the media industry. She’s since been a major supporter of me and the projects I work on, and is an inspiration to many.

Tracy Moore (beside Nam in the white) and Marci Ien (beside Nneka in the black) are media powerhouses who have both given me kind and encouraging words. Producers like Kathleen Newman-Bremang and Nicole Brewster-Mercury are behind the scenes, intentionally and determinedly crafting what we see on TV. Hodan Nayaleh and Patricia Bebia-Mawa have built platforms like Integration TV and AfroGlobal TV respectively, to create space for ethnocultural stories in media.

That woman sitting front row centre? That’s the inimitable Camille Dundas – TV producer, digital magazine editor, and media mentor extraordinaire, who pulled this whole thing together.

And do you see CTV reporter Andria Case in front in the fly yellow heels? A major piece of what led me to that photoshoot started with her. She interviewed me back when I modeled in Toronto Fashion Week, shortly after I started this blog. I used my married last name, Quammie, in the interview – and that was the catalyst to a strange coworker googling my name, finding my blog, and reporting me as a racist at work. I nearly stopped blogging after that, but didn’t. I never got to thank Andria at the shoot for unknowingly being part of one of the most important moments in my journey, but thank you.

Lawrence Kerr Photography -4677

Lawrence Kerr Photography -4646


When I left the shoot, I thought about the day I contemplated not blogging anymore, then thought about how far I’ve come since then. In that moment I realized I needed to stop being passive about my journey through blogging, writing, and media. As much as I’ve played it humble and looked at myself as someone who was merely paying their dues, I’ve been putting in work – and I’m ready to own that. I’m ready to put in even more hard work and continue to carve out my space in the media world, whatever that may look like. Being included among these incredible women reminded me not to take my journey for granted and not to take my skills lightly.

As I walked back to my car on that exceptionally sunny Sunday, I realized I was meant to be there that day and thought, “The future has never looked so bright.” Here’s to lifting each other as we climb, celebrating the ones who came before us, and looking out for the ones who are on their way. #CanadianMediaSisterhood is real.

BLACK + WOMAN: The Complications Of Courtesy, Femininity, & Taking Up Space

Aint I - STruth

Sometimes, their faces are nonchalant because they truly couldn’t care less. Sometimes they’re tinged red, signaling the irrational anger bubbling underneath the skin. Sometimes, the redness is from embarrassment – but it’s rare that I hear an apology escape their lips. All of these faces are the ones I see by the people who commit microaggressions against me every day, and I remember each one of them. I saw a couple of those faces today when the people around me reminded me that being a 6ft tall Black woman places me on the lowest rung of their femininity scales.

As the train lurched to my stop this morning, those of us prepping to exit shuffled closer to the double doors, waiting for them to slide open. The White man beside me smiled at the White women around us, then graciously allowed them to exit ahead of him. As I started to walk through the doors as well, he made a great effort to push ahead of me, knocking me off balance in the process. That was one of the red faces, seemingly angry that I assumed his kindness would be extended my way.

Walking through the train station to the doors that led to my office building, I saw another White man holding the door open chivalrously for the White and Asian women walking through. As he saw me coming, he made eye contact, slid through the door, and let it slam in my face. His was one of the nonchalant faces, completely unconcerned with the fact that he purposely chose not to help a woman who had her hands full. The older White woman beside me shook her head and opened the door for me, then chided the man for choosing to rush than to be polite. I thanked her for her help, but didn’t bother to tell her the issue wasn’t his time constraint – it was that he didn’t deem me, a Black woman who towered over him in her heels – worthy of the courtesy he offered to the other women in his midst.

The embarrassed red faces were the ones at the grocery store recently – once, a cashier, once the White woman ahead of me whose child was being rambunctious in the line – who took quick glances at me then referred to me as “Sir” and “him.” Height + dark skin = ‘man’ more often than not, which is why I’ve been described with masculine terms until the person realizes that I’m in fact a woman.

The creation of the construct of Blackness through slavery matched with colonialism, colourism, and pandering to the perceived fragility of White women (whether they’re actually fragile or not) have greatly impacted the perception of Black women and Black femininity. Slavery saw Black men and women working side-by-side in cotton and sugar cane fields, expected to do the same labour. Because slavery denied us our humanity on a base level, you definitely couldn’t expect concepts like masculinity and femininity to be recognized, except for the biological purposes of childbearing. Black women serving as wet nurses and domestics in White homes throughout history were occupations still rooted in a denial of humanity, plus an acceptance of Black womanhood and femininity solely for the benefits it provided White families – particularly White women. Colourism has affected these perceptions as well, where lighter-skinned Black women have often been regarded with more value than darker-skinned women, both inter- and intra-racially. We see how this plays out in media today – how often do we see romantic couples represented with a dark-skinned Black man and a light-skinned Black woman? How often do we see darker-skinned Black men play “comedic” and cartoonish tropes of Black women? Darkness has been matched with masculinity, and lightness with femininity – so for me, it’s no surprise that my brown tone becomes equated with being “him” or presumes me unworthy of chivalrous courtesy in predominantly White spaces.

The flip side is when I am the benefactor of courtesy. When I am the one holding the door or making space for others, that action is expected. Where the corporate-suited White men in my office building bound onto the elevator and stand, legs spread, in the middle of the space, they look at me with the silent expectation that I will make myself smaller to accommodate them. I notice that sometimes my height is seen as a challenge to their masculinity. Where I’ve always joked that shorter men are almost insufferable in their attempts to make up for lack of height in my presence, I’ve come to realize that White men who are my height equals can be worse. The process is usually the following:

  1. White man ends up standing beside me in a public space.
  2. He realizes we’re eye-to-eye.
  3. He looks down to see if I’m wearing heels or flats.
  4. Either way (but especially when I’m in flats), he’ll place his hands on his hips or shift until his legs are hip-width apart, in a challenge to take up even more space.
  5. I laugh internally. And sometimes out loud.

There’s really no final thought to wrap this up with a nice bow. I have no words of advice, no thoughts on educating those who let this deep-rooted consciousness colour their interactions with me on a daily basis. Nothing else to add except to bring these microaggressions to light in hopes that it may make someone more aware, or at least make me feel like I’m not crazy. Even while writing this piece I’ve thought “Am I being too sensitive? Were these situations as bad as they seem? Am I just blowing things out of proportion?” But that’s exactly what microaggressions do – they make us question and second guess ourselves, siphoning time and energy from the victim, keeping us silent when we really need to promptly check a motherfucker.

So, as I head back out into the world for lunch, let me fluff my hair, apply some more lipstick, stand tall, and take up space. It won’t stop the microaggressions from attempting to chip away at my armour, but it’ll help me honour my brand of womanhood, femininity, Blackness, and worth. I’ll always honour it, regardless of who thinks otherwise.

IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU: Broadening Canada’s Media Landscape

Back in 2013, with some incredible Black Canadian women in media

Back in 2014, with some incredible Black Canadian women in media

It’s always entertaining to watch the reactions of someone who realizes something isn’t about them, when they’re used to everything being about them. Similarly, it’s hilarious to watch what happens when someone is forced to share, especially when it’s clear that sharing is the most unnatural thing to them.

Those two points being said: my popcorn has been popped and buttered for the scores of Ontarians upset that a slice of media has attempted to become more representative of the diversity in our particular province.

The Agenda is a current-affairs program on TVO, a provincially-funded television station. Its summer edition is being hosted by the incomparable Nam Kiwanuka, while regular host Steve Paikin is on hiatus. The Agenda is no stranger to controversies around diversity – this article notes that “The Agenda is self-admittedly too white: only 17 per cent of its guests last year were visible minorities (about 25 per cent of Ontarians identified as visible minorities in the 2011 census)”, and I was actually a guest on the show after a debacle over the lack of women panelists on the show, which aims to represent the demographics of Ontario.

Efforts have been made by the show to exercise more diversity across topic choices and panelist selections, and I’ve enjoyed much of what the show has offered so far in its summer session. I’ve seen more people from a variety of societal intersections featured on the show – discussing topics that are relevant, enlightening, and entertaining – than I remember seeing in the past, and I hope this continues even once the regular season picks up again in the fall.

While I’m enjoying the fresh faces and topics, it seems not everyone is so enthusiastic. A quick glance at comments on The Agenda’s social media accounts show that some feel any topic highlighting the lived experience of non-white people is a red flag that the show has become some far-left demon spawn, spewing propaganda aimed at making white people feel guilty for their privilege.

I just want to know: why do those people think everything is about them?

I mean, on one hand, I get it. Nothing makes the majority feel more victimized than realizing that they have to give up some of their space to the minority. A shifting landscape can be scary. Their territory is being encroached upon by people who they don’t relate to on some level, and the thought that their narrative is not the only one being shared – and not the only one that matters – is a threatening idea. In their eyes, something that they feel rightfully belongs to them (in this case, space in media) is being siphoned from them by people that don’t deserve it, and it’s a cause for panic.

This phenomenon isn’t unique to The Agenda or any particular media outlet – here in Canadian media, we continue to have a huge problem with the inability to make space for diverse faces and diverse narratives, and the efforts to remedy the problem seem to take an incredible amount of time. Because of this, when space is finally made for someone non-white (add to that being a woman, and/or disabled, and/or LGBTQ, etc.), it’s taken as a personal affront by those who are used to seeing their faces and their faces only. Cue panic. Cue paranoia. Cue “Why are we talking about this? It doesn’t matter!” Cue nasty comments online from people with fake names and dog/flag/egg avis – comments designed to put the minority back in their place and restore balance in their tiny, tiny worlds.

It’s a clear sign of an insecurity issue when someone feels their personhood is threatened by the presence of someone else, and I smell a stench of ignorance tinged with arrogance when people feel that a story doesn’t matter simply because it is not one they identify with. These are people who would seek to push those voices back into the margins, only to be called out when they deem necessary (usually when they’re looking for a “new” cultural idea to appropriate, or when we’re pretending that Canada is a multicultural utopia). What I would hope for the offended to understand is that while they are used to being status quo, the presence of “other” isn’t a reactionary one. A non-white person taking up space in media is not there simply to be an antagonist to whiteness. We are there to tell our truths, share our expertise, and make our money just like anyone else. Basically, stop thinking everything is about you.

I have admittedly had to work to undo the thought processes that made me overly concerned with what white people thought of me. As a Black woman, I’ve practiced the habit of running myself through various filters, hoping that whatever diluted product was left at the end was enough to get my idea across efficiently without being “too much” of anything.  The problem with that is, I filtered out myself in the act – so what’s really the point? Yes – I still aim to be professional, entertaining, intelligent, and whatever else is needed in the moment. However, worrying about what any one particular group thinks of me based on a paradigm that was created to make me inherently feel less than is not a good use of my energy. The space I take up in media as a Black woman, whether I’m talking about Blackness or anything else (another topic for another day: Canadian media, you can call on Black folks to discuss things other than Black issues), is valid and worthy and necessary.

That same validity, worth, and necessity is relevant to all of the diverse stories that can and should be told in our media. Until the Canadian industry catches up with what we all have to offer, I’ll continue to appreciate the entities that work to make room for us. Unfortunately for those who feel threatened by our presence: all I have to say is, get used to it. It really isn’t about you.  

NEW MOVES: How My Side Hustle Changed The Course Of My Career


One of the strongest memories of my years of playing the violin is when my teacher defined the “sweet spot.” It was that place and moment when your bow rested right in between the fingerboard and bridge, when you applied the right amount of pressure, and when you drew the bow smoothly and evenly, getting the richest sound. It took me some time to learn how to find the sweet spot but eventually I got it, and I was able to make some beautiful music – a metaphor I’ve applied to other areas in life. As I get older, I’ve come to believe that what’s meant for us is truly for us. Through some of my most difficult disappointments, I’ve only gotten through by clutching onto the belief that the right opportunities would come along and I’d find my sweet spot.

I’ve also come to strongly believe that the things we call coincidences aren’t coincidences at all. It’s my hypothesis that if we’re paying attention, we’ll see that synchronicities are all around us – dots get connected, links get made, and things that didn’t make sense suddenly become crystal clear when the other piece of the puzzle drops into place minutes, months, or years later.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about sweet spots, opportunity, and synchronicity – especially as it relates to work and where I see my career going. A few years ago at one job, I was (allegedly) called a racist by higher-ups because someone found this very blog and thought it was problematic for me to discuss issues related to being a Black woman in Canada. I eventually started job hunting, hoping to land a position in writing or communications or media or something that felt more in tune with my passions and interests (there’s a post in me about the issues of being a Black woman and an empath in healthcare/social work management, but that’s for another day). I had no luck landing that kind of dream job, but did get offered a similar management position at another agency in the same healthcare/social work field. Something told me not to settle for the job I knew I could do and keep waiting for the one I wanted to do, but I wanted a change by any means necessary, so I took it. A month in, I realized this may not be the job for me. 2.5 months in, I started job hunting again. This time I told myself I wouldn’t settle – if I wanted my career to go in a new direction I had to steer the ship – so I only applied for the jobs that I truly wanted to do.

Now, I have none of the degrees or formal education required for the jobs I applied for, but went for them off da strenf of the career I’ve created for myself using this blog as my launching pad. I’m not at the point of being ready to go full-time freelance or full-time entrepreneur, but I know I have skills and gifts and passions that need to be utilized. So I jazzed up my resumes and cover letters with help from friends, crossed my fingers, toes, and hair strands with each application, and waited for the calls to roll in.

For a while, I heard nothing but crickets. Then, an email to schedule an interview appeared. Next, a call for a phone interview, and after that, a call for an in-person chat. Slowly but surely, people were calling me – ME! – to come in for interviews for jobs I had really only dreamed of having. Even better than the interview calls were the offers that came. Long story short: I took one of those offers. I negotiated for what I felt I was worth, and got it. I handed in my resignation just before I left for Yale (OMG I HAVE TO TELL Y’ALL ABOUT YALE), and overheard two executives discussing my impending departure, saying (and I quote): “I guess she’s just not the shining star we thought she was. It seems like she can’t cut it if she’s leaving.” That further solidified that I made the right decision to go.

Let’s just say that the exit interview I requested with those two executives was a defining moment in my career journey.

But back to the new gig!

It’s just been a week and a bit in, but I’m honestly so proud of myself that I was able to secure a great job with an incredible organization solely off of the work I’ve done in my side hustle. Sometimes your side hustle stays protected as your side hustle, and other times it leads you in brand new directions. My blogging, writing, social media work, media experience and more are what landed me this job, and those are the things I almost canceled out of my life when someone decided they wanted to undermine my career by using it all against me. But guess what, bih? I have a new career now, and I firmly believe that my future is the brightest it’s been in a LONG time. I’m excited to see where this new journey takes me, and I feel a renewed shot of electric creativity flowing through my veins. I’m ready to grow and learn and be better at everything I love to do, so that’s the mission.

Make room for your gifts, and your gifts will create space for you. A sweet spot, if you will.

LOVE LOST: Falling Out Of/Back In Love With My Hair


The love affair between my hair and I has hit a rough patch.

Nearly a decade after growing out my relaxer and joining #TeamNatural, I’ve regressed in my hair adoration and I’m almost back at that insecure, “not sure what I’m doing” stage I found myself in after my big chop. I’ve had some fabulous hair days since that muggy August afternoon when I emerged from the salon, 100% natural and free – days of cotton candy fluffiness, surprising length, and daring moments with colour that made me feel excited about experimenting with my hair. Learning about my hair’s versatility was so incredibly fun – dry sets, wet sets, stretching twists, blown out, or letting my coils spring free-form – discovering and indulging in it all amazed me. But somewhere along the journey, that excitement faded.

When I co-hosted my Curls, Coils, & Cocktails meetup at the end of February, I admitted this very fact. In the weeks since, I’ve really been thinking about why I feel so despondent about my hair, and I’ve uncovered two main reasons why I’m currently so blah about my crown.

Motherhood Maintenance

Little Magician is almost 2 now (where is time going???) and she literally does not stop moving until you can wrangle her flailing limbs and get her into bed. That being said, it’s become much easier for me to a) rock styles like box braids and Marley twists to get my hair out of the way and still look cute or b) becoming alarmingly OK with not maintaining my hair well, and just praying for mercy from my hair goddess whenever I get around to my next wash day. With either option, I acknowledge that I’m not engaging and falling in love with my own hair – I’m just doing what I need to do to get through the day and look presentable. It takes so much more planning now to be able to properly wash, detangle, set, and allow my hair to dry – and when I’m chasing after/feeding/putting to bed/entertaining a toddler, sometimes my hair transforms from a necessary responsibility to an indulgent luxury.

Skewed Self-Image

Back when I was pregnant, I went for a casting call at a modeling agency. I had recently bought a cute lil half wig that helped me to rock a quick and fly look as needed, and ended up wearing it to my audition. I didn’t book that gig, but they kept my photos on file and I’ve been booking quite a few gigs since, off da strenf of those pics.

Because of the half wig, every casting agent gets excited over my hair and ensures that my hair will be exactly the same as the photos they saw when I show up to set. Even though I always send in current photos at their request, my hair is never acceptable unless it’s coiled and blended into the shoulder-length half wig. I won’t lie – getting awed looks and overflowing compliments about my half-wigged hair in comparison to rejection or shrugs of “I like it better the other way” for my natural hair has gotten to me after a while. I’ve gotten self-conscious about my hair. I’ve gotten used to how my face looks enveloped by the billows of curly additions. I’ve simultaneously been proud to represent in mainstream media as a Black woman rocking natural-textured hair, and felt like a fraud for not being able to book gigs with my hair – the hair I’ve grown, not the hair I’ve bought.

I adore my natural hair and used to have so much fun with it. But now – due to convenience, time constraints, job demands, and narrow scopes of beauty ideals in media, I haven’t given myself the time to fall back in love with it. This past weekend when I had an extra moment to myself, I jumped in the shower with my drain protector, wide-tooth comb, and my favourite lotions and potions – and spent time caring for my hair in a way I hadn’t done as of late. I came out, massaged some coconut oil into my strands, then took my trusty Denman brush and shea butter and detangled then twisted my hair section by section. Today I took the twists down, feeling the softness and silkiness, and admiring the springiness of each coil. My hair felt healthy and beautiful and almost seemed to whisper “Don’t you remember why you loved me?” I do now, and my new goal is to reacquaint myself with her, set time to be with her, and reset my expectations of her and of me. I’m determined to rekindle our relationship, and I think we’re finally on the right track.

FORGIVE/FORGET: Living Through The Process Of Forgiveness



I needed a reminder that I was still a good person.

You see, last week I found myself months-deep in my email inbox, looking for a document for the ever-dreaded tax season. I typed some keywords into the search bar, hit enter, and watched the results populate. The first thing I saw, however, wasn’t the email I was looking for – it was one I never really wanted to see again, but there it was.

I should have deleted that email long ago. To be honest, I think I only kept it to refer to in moments where I wondered, “Did that REALLY happen? Did this person REALLY speak to me that way? Did this person REALLY blindside me like that and make me wonder if I was as horrible as they wrote?” When I needed the reminder that, yes, those things were all true, there sat that email to give me the proof I needed. It probably isn’t a healthy practice to revisit, even subconsciously, a moment that causes you great pain – but I think I was in such disbelief for so long that it was part of my process of acceptance, moving on, and forgiveness.

Forgiveness is a tricky, tricky thing – and in this particular situation, the work of forgiveness made me angry. It’s one thing to be wronged by someone and have them come to you, arms wide and heart apologetic as they lay down the acknowledgement of what they’ve done to you. You, as the forgiver, still bear the weight of working through your emotions and granting forgiveness when and how you see fit, but you’re not the only person in the conversation. An entirely different level of effort is required when you have nothing from the other person but the pain they’ve left you with – no apologies, no contrition, no acknowledgement, no agreement to sit down and talk it out – but in order to save yourself, you still have to find forgiveness on your own. It’s exhausting. It’s unfair. It’s anger-inducing. That exhaustion and unfairness and anger wrapped up in the process of forgiveness can make the whole thing implode from the inside out – but as I’ve learned, the process is largely inevitable, so you’ve got to push through.

I’ve had to question how effective the act of forgetting is in relation to forgiveness. Forgetting feels good, and when you remember that you’ve forgotten, it can feel like a step towards being able to forgive. When you forget, and move on, and start living your life outside of whatever connections you had with that person – when you do those things, you start to fill your life with new experiences that can soften the blow of the hurt you felt before. But inevitably, you remember. Something reminds you of that person or that situation, and one of two things happen. Either you remember and it doesn’t hurt as much (or at all), and you’re able to smile at your growth and perhaps even look up to the sky and wish that person well, wherever they are. Or, an uncomfortable pressure builds up in your chest and tries to bubble out of your eyes, and you swallow it down, convincing yourself you didn’t feel it. In one situation, forgetting moves you towards forgiving. In the other, forgetting is a flimsy mask for the forgiveness process. I’ve been on both sides, but I know which one feels better.

When I came across that old email the other day, I felt enough of that pressure building to concern me. In the past, I’d been able to smile and nod to the sky, so hadn’t I reached forgiveness? Hadn’t I actually stated out loud in the past that I’ve forgiven this person? So why was I now feeling like I had taken a step back? What I’ve learned here is that forgiveness can be a straightforward process, or it can come in and out like the tide. Maybe I haven’t fully reached the destination yet, or perhaps it’ll be a cyclical thing where the biggest goal will be to make sure each low moment is higher than the last. Then eventually, maybe one day it’ll all even out.

In writing this post, I can say that my biggest win has been taking the lens of forgiveness from the external to the internal. What I mean by this is that I’ve moved from wondering why, wondering what I did to make this person act the way they did, wondering what was and is going through their head – I’ve stopped caring. I know I’ll never get those answers, and even if I did at this point, they’ve lost the impact they could have on my forgiveness process. I’ve moved that lens internally, where it should be. I’ve learned to focus on what I need to do to feel good, what I can do to be a better person in the future, what I can do to accept what was and move on to what will be in my life. Forgiveness is a process for me, not for anyone else. Once I realized that, the process started to flow more authentically without cliched expectations of how it should feel.

So, I’m still on the journey of this and other paths of forgiveness in my life. Being able to forgive – or more realistically, dedicate myself to the process of forgiveness – reminds me that I’m still a good person, and I’m getting better every day.

OH HELL YES: Making Space For Life To Take Shape

shape your world

For the past few weeks, I’ve been binge-watching Girlfriends, one of my favourite sitcoms. I’m currently in the middle of season 5 – Joan and William are (inexplicably) in a relationship, Lynn has connected with her birth parents, Toni is pregnant and ducking divorce papers from her estranged husband Todd, and Maya just got a huge endorsement from Rev. Al Sharpton for her girl-you-can-do-it book, Oh Hell Yes.

It’s Maya’s story that currently resonates with me – our relationship statuses aren’t the same, but our prioritization of our children, our desire to do the work we’re passionate about, and our desperate fear of settling and being stuck in something that makes us miserable ARE the same. Funnily enough, these same traits resonated in a real book I read recently – Shonda Rhimes’ Year Of Yes, which details Rhimes’ journey through a year where she said yes to everything that scared her. After reading her book at the end of 2015, I decided I was going to make 2016 my year to say yes – or, oh HELL yes – and I was going to put themes of priority, passion work, and not settling in the forefront of my mind to create the life I want.

Walking into 2016, I realized that the only way I’d be able to live the life I wanted would be to make room for it. The work I want to do, the experiences I want to have, the goals I want to achieve – none of them will come to fruition if there isn’t space for them to thrive. I took a big leap by leaving my job and taking on a new role that gives me more time for my family, my writing, and my other projects. I dropped projects that were taking up time and not giving me equal ROI. I was approached with some opportunities that in the past, I would have hemmed and hawed over before likely declining them out of fear, but this time I didn’t waste time – I said yes, jumped in, and blossomed because of them. (Note: there’s a message here about innately knowing the difference between declining something because you know in your heart of hearts it isn’t for you, and declining because you’re scared, even though you know you’re capable – or at least curious about your capability. Sometimes fear masks itself as humility, but we know in the pit of our stomachs that we’re lying to ourselves. Might write more about that later.)

I’m determined to see some real progress in a variety of arenas this year, and I quickly realized that a) I had to stop talking about it and BE about it and b) nothing was going to grow if I didn’t clear the space for them to do so. Change is extremely difficult for me, so stepping out of my comfort zone has been an uncomfortable process. However, I believe so earnestly in the promise of the things I’m working towards that sacrificing my comfort is a necessary move.

Last year, my goal was simply to get through the day. Balancing my first year of being a working mom took a lot out of me, but set me up for this year – where I’m back to having goals, benchmarks, and renewed ideas of what success looks like to me. I have big plans, and now I have the space to execute them. This year, I’m not just saying yes. I’m saying, oh, HELL yes.

What is one thing you can let go of to make room for what you want or need in life?




It’s after midnight on December 31st, officially making it the last day of the year – and all I can think to do is exhale.

I didn’t even realize that holding my breath had become a habit until recently. While working on my vision board for 2016 and reviewing what 2015 was for me, I caught myself holding my breath. A lot. It didn’t take much for me to hypothesize that that was my psychosomatic response both in anticipation of what’s to come, and in reaction to what had already come to pass. I flinch and hold my breath when I think about what 2015 was. I hold my breath and pray when I think about what I hope 2016 will be.

I had some wins in 2015, but if I’m being honest about this past year, it was simply about keeping my head above water. This year I juggled the most balls I’ve ever juggled, so it’s no surprise to me that I didn’t feel like I progressed as far as I would have wanted – I was too busy standing in one spot, trying to keep all the balls in the air. I grew and I learned a lot, but didn’t move forward in a way that signifies a level of success for me – so while this year wasn’t terrible (asking myself “But did you (or anyone you love) die though?” helps keep things in perspective), it wasn’t one of my best.

I hold my breath when I’m nervous. Or when I’m panicky and overwhelmed. Or when I’m happy and excited (and sometimes subconsciously expecting something bad to happen next). I held my breath when I walked back into work for my first day after mat leave, and when I was about to film a segment for a TV show, and when I awaited news to see if I earned a fellowship position (that I didn’t get). I held my breath when Little Magician took her first steps, and when I stood up for myself in ways I never imagined I would have. There were good moments and great moments – but when I looked back at my resolutions for 2015 and saw that very few of them came to pass, I realized that I failed to breathe life into my year.

Moving into 2016, I plan to hold my breath less and breathe more. I want to inspire and be inspired, and those very words aren’t possible without the intimation of breathing. I want to keep growing, but also progress in life – so those balls I’m juggling? I have to graduate from standing in one spot and watching myself toss and catch them, to learning how to keep them in the air while looking and moving forward.

Here’s to the year that was and the year that will be. And if nothing else, I’ll remember to breathe.

TRUTH SEEK: Black Girls, Natural Hair, & The Cost Of Believing Lies We’ve Been Told


After wearing my hair naturally for years, writing about natural hair, and producing events aimed at the celebration of natural hair, I try to remember to approach conversations from various perspectives. For every woman who is comfortable rocking her Afro puff in the boardroom, there are 3 more Googling “natural hair transitioning” while twirling relaxed locks around their fingers. Natural-haired women sometimes say to me, “We’re over asking ‘Can you be sexy/professional with natural hair’! It’s time to move on!” While I hear that, I acknowledge that we aren’t all at the same place in this discussion. That disparity is never more apparent to me than when I hear a flagrantly ignorant comment or the report of some egregious occurrence where someone simply dared to wear their hair with its natural texture. One of those occurrences was recently brought to my attention.

A Facebook status made the rounds this weekend, where a woman in Toronto named Kaysie wrote about her niece. After recently having her hair done in a crochet braid style, her niece was chastised by her middle school principal who first gave her a hair tie and told her to “do something about her hair,” then kept her in the office, telling her that her hair was “too poofy,” “unprofessional,” and that “if she were working in a store, no one would buy anything from her.”

After a news story revealed that the principal was herself a Black woman, the reporter asked the women in the salon she reported out of “Does that make a difference?” On the surface, sure – but the root cause of the principal’s comments and the reason why she felt empowered in humiliating this young girl is more common than we think. Anti-Blackness and the reverence of European beauty ideals are themes that infiltrate the minds of many, regardless of race. It’s why we have people the world over bleaching their skin. It’s why we have fashion marketing campaigns choosing White models in order to “convey a positive image.” And it’s why we have Black women denigrating young Black girls who are proudly wearing their hair in natural styles.

Colonialism did a number on Black people and other people of colour across the globe, and its effects can still be felt throughout the diaspora today. When I decided to wear my hair naturally, some of my biggest detractors were older Black Caribbean and African women, who couldn’t fathom why I would choose to run more towards my Blackness than away from it. I am still working to help family members divest from the mental weight of carrying that kind of self-loathing with them, most motivated by comments I’ve already fielded about Little Magician’s hair. Though I’ve been natural for years and love to cloak myself in the bubble I’ve built with friends and acquaintances who love and accept natural hair like I do, I will never forget that there are people – many people – like this principal who feel otherwise.

The same anti-Blackness and European veneration I mentioned before are what leads people to incorrectly believe that natural hair is unprofessional, ugly, wild, or a distraction. It’s what enables discussion to swirl around the fact that hair is not part of this particular school’s dress code, making me believe that this case may create an unnecessary conversation. When a Black girl’s hair is up for debate, even the slightest attempt to find a way to regulate it (in this instance through school dress code, which often only reinforces Eurocentric standards) gives me serious pause. It’s what sets us – I’m speaking to Black girls and women specifically here – up for failure, constantly chasing an ideal that doesn’t belong to us because someone made us falsely believe it was the path to a better/easier life.

I pity the principal of Amesbury Middle School and the fact that she is so dedicated to this fallacy. However, the person I am most concerned about is the child that remains in the midst of this mess. We still have the reminder that there are people entrusted with taking care of our children and shaping their hearts, minds, and souls for the future, but we must remain vigilant and always be our children’s fiercest advocates. We still have a Black girl who needs to remember that she is magic, even if others can’t recognize her sparkle. We still have much work to do with those among us who believe the lies we’ve been told about ourselves, and we always need to remember to work internally to ensure we aren’t perpetuating those falsehoods consciously or unconsciously.

I don’t know what will come of future discussions and interactions between this young girl, her family, and the principal. What I do know is I hope this girl remains uplifted by her loved ones, remains confident (or regains her confidence) in her natural beauty, and continues to side-step the lies while walking in her truth. 

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